


Singer of Snow

by helico_pter



Series: Singer of Snow [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Copious Amounts of Bathing, Getting to Know Each Other, Horses, M/M, OtaYuri Week 2020, and a Lot of Original Characters, yurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helico_pter/pseuds/helico_pter
Summary: Otabek and his family of nomadic horse herders come across a boy in the middle of nowhere. Otabek decides to help the boy find his way home.ETA 4/12/2020: Added the post-epilogue.ETA 17/12/2020: Added the post-post-epilogue.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: Singer of Snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188872
Comments: 134
Kudos: 142
Collections: Otayuri Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have never been able to time any fic to anything specific. So the fact that this fic is kind of almost on time for Otayuri Week 2020 is pure coincidence on top of a pile of failures.
> 
> So, to preface the fic, even though it is more on the side of historical fiction, I’d like to disclaim that I’m in no way attempting to portray a real or even realistic version of what Kazakh pastoral nomads were/are. I don’t have that kind of knowledge. Some things/places are real, most not.
> 
> Because there are a lot of original characters involved, namely those making up Otabek's family, I have included a kind of a simplified family tree in the end notes.
> 
> Finally, extra special thanks to [aeslis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeslis/pseuds/aeslis) for letting me rant at her!

He comes across the ransacked procession of Muscovite wagons in the river valley.

Two of the five wagons have been pushed over and the rest stand derelict among the rocks in the river. _They were trying to cross_ , Otabek thinks, looking down into the water-carved valley. The land across the river is flatter grassland, and long wheel tracks lead to a muddied and churned spot on the riverbank where the wagons must have entered. There is no sign of the people or their animals. The wagons are mostly intact, but clearly abandoned.

Otabek continues along the edge of the highland, drawn by the caw of carrion birds, and comes to a new stop when he spots the pile of corpses downriver from the wagons. Some lie in the shallow water, unnaturally bloated and grey. Otabek counts ten men, no women or children. Foreign traders don’t typically bring their families.

“That could be trouble,” Otabek says, patting his horse’s neck. “Don’t you think so, Burr?” The animal tosses her head and treads around in a semicircle, unnerved by the presence of the dead. She’s right to be, and the same uneasiness prickles across Otabek’s skin. “Let’s go tell them.”

She responds to his urging and springs forwards, turning in a wide arc back towards the plains and the rest of the family. They travel in two groups, the women and children in one, the herd of horses in another, and the men splitting their time between both. For the past few days, Otabek has been the outrider, going ahead of the groups to scout out the route.

It’s cold enough for Burdock to steam up during the ride back to the main group. The dry grass breaks and rustles under her hooves, leaving a swath of flattened turf in their wake. The sky is grey but not dark, stretching from horizon to horizon over the steppes. The ground slopes down towards the south, but very gradually. They’re still a fair distance away from the site of their winter pastures near the trading town of Seven Rivers on Lake Balkhash.

Otabek rejoins the main group, slowing down when the carts come into view, to let both himself and Burdock to catch their breaths. Riding into the wind has made his cheeks and nose a little numb, so he rubs them as he catches up to his father at the front of the group.

“Dad,” he calls out. “Bodies in the river.”

“Ours?” Altynbek asks.

“Muscovites,” Otabek says. “I think they got stuck while crossing the river and were attacked.”

“By?” Altynbek is troubled. As the head of the family, the responsibility for everyone and everything falls on him.

“I don’t know. I counted at least ten dead.”

Altynbek turns in his saddle, looking over the family. There are five carts, used to transport their yurts and other belongings. The women of the family head the carts along with the youngest of the children. Most of the men are with the horses. The family consists of Altynbek’s three wives, their children, and the wife and children of Altynbek’s younger brother, Otyrau. Otabek’s oldest brother also has a wife and a child with them.

“Go take a closer look,” Altynbek decides. He whistles a short call, gesturing for those riders with the main family to come up to him. “Take Janibek and Ulyrau,” he says as the two ride up to them.

“Got it,” Otabek says, veering his horse away from the group again. Janibek and Ulyrau are both younger than him, Janibek by mere months and Ulyrau by a few years. Janibek is his brother from Altynbek’s second wife, but Ulyrau is a cousin, the son of Otyrau.

Otabek leds them to the edge of the river valley, where they look for a spot to descend safely. The slope is mostly talus stone, interspersed with the greener grass of a regular flood area, slippery but not an issue to their sturdy and sure-footed horses.

“What a stupid place to cross,” Janibek snorts when they come to the wagons. “Stupid place to bring wagons.” The steppes may look flat but they’re full of dips and cracks, deceptive to those who haven’t grown up there.

“That’s the only way they know how to travel,” Ulyrau replies.

“Serves them right,” Janibek says, not moving closer to the wreckage. He’s the only son of Altynbek’s second wife, cherished all the more for that. His attitude is grating.

Ulyrau is gentler. “They must’ve not found a way to take their wagons back up,” he says, gazing up the slope they’d just descended.

Otabek lets them boast their station and knowledge and proceeds through the remnants, letting Burdock find her own footholds in the shallow water. The first two wagons have been pushed over and broken, while the third wagon is slightly tilted over a large stone in the river, stuck in its place and effectively blocking the two remaining ones from moving. He picks his way around the wagons and whistles softly when he smells the smoke, and his companions stop talking, bringing their attention to him.

“Do you smell that?” Otabek says.

“Wood smoke,” Janibek asserts after raising his face to the wind.

The smell is very faint, but the fact that it remains at all means a fire has been used very recently. With this in mind, Otabek begins to notice the marks of foraging around the wagons. Loose planks have been pulled from their sides. The soggy water’s edge is patterned with fresh footsteps.

“Let’s see if we can do something for the dead,” Otabek says, feeling another trickle of uneasiness at the nape of his neck. Janibek can’t hide his discomfort either, eyes flicking from side to side. He pulls out his long knife, a blade that’s more a tool than a weapon, as they traverse the short distance to the pile of corpses and dismount, causing the carrion birds to scatter.

Despite the impatient cawing by the birds and the slow run of the river, the valley seems to hold in an ill silence. Ulyrau goes pale and covers his nose and mouth with his hand. Otabek counts eleven corpses total, bringing the total up from his earlier estimation. They’re dead from spear and arrow wounds, but they wouldn’t have had much of a chance, trapped as they’d been in the river valley, against someone with greater mobility and ranged weapons.

“What do we do with them?” Janibek asks. “They’re too wet to burn.”

“Let’s make sure they’re not in the water,” Otabek decides. “The scavengers will do the rest.”

Ulyrau is sick in the grass, and Otabek tells him to go back to the horses and keep an eye out. Dragging two of the corpses out of the water is not a pleasant task, but Otabek has the advantage of a few more years of experience in dealing with uncomfortable things. Afterwards they wash their hands in river, scrubbing them clean with sand. The smell of smoke has dissipated, and the valley is empty of anyone but them and the birds waiting for their meal.

“Can we leave?” Ulyrau asks pitifully when Otabek and Janibek come back to the horses.

“I want to look in the wagons,” Otabek says. “There might be something useful.”

“Can’t we just leave?” Ulyrau repeats. His dun horse is as restless as its rider, stepping back and forth.

“Are you afraid?” Janibek smacks the horse on its flank, making it neigh and yank its head up, eyes rolling.

“I’m not!” Ulyrau says after reining in his horse, but his face is pale and worried.

Janibek mounts his horse in one leap. “What’s the point of looking?” he questions just as there’s a clattering sound from inside one of the wagons.

The three of them become quiet and share a look. This time it’s Otabek who takes out his knife and approaches the wagon in question. The sides of the wooden construct on wheels are still bright with paint, white and blue and red, only peeling here and there. The iron wheels are speckled with rust, and the smell of smoke becomes stronger as Otabek draws closer to the last of the three standing wagons.

There are no more sounds from inside the wagon. Its small windows are shuttered, and a step leads to the door that falls open as Otabek tries it. The inside is dark and messy, but something shivers in the corner, covered by a piece of cloth. Eyes glint in the meagre light from the open door. _An animal?_ Otabek backs away and braces the door of the wagon open.

“You’re free to go,” he tells the cowering creature, putting his knife away. “It’s just an animal,” he reports. “Let’s go back.” He gets up on Burdock, but when they turn to ride back up the slope, there’s a clatter from behind them, followed by a hoarse voice.

“Э-эй!” the voice calls out.

Otabek veers around, hand going for his bow, and his companions follow suit. The voice is definitely human, but the language is not theirs. The boy with his bright blue clothes and pale hair is definitely not theirs either. Otabek’s people are both dark of hair and eye, and their clothes are rarely in colours that vivid.

As the boy comes closer, picking his way around and over the rocks, Otabek sees that his clothes are torn and dirty, and there is a gaping rip along one thigh in his trousers, dark with blood from the wound underneath. He doesn’t understand any of the words that come out of the boy’s mouth, but he understands the situation. A lone survivor, not very old, but not as young as his small figure would indicate either. The voice belongs to a young man.

He stops ten paces away, shaking in the cold, his footwear wet from the river, slurring out words that mean nothing to Otabek or his companions. Otabek takes his hand off his bow, finding the boy no threat.

“Hello,” he says.

“What should we do?” Ulyrau asks, alarmed.

“We should just leave him,” Janibek says instantly. “Not our problem.” He turns his horse and urges it up the slope, the same way they came.

“Is he human?” Ulyrau continues, letting Otabek realise why his companions might be startled by the appearance of the stranger.

The boy is staring at them, quiet now, arms around himself. The wind moves his hair like it’s weightless smoke as he glances nervously towards the carrion birds in the sky, and then downriver at the pile of bodies. He must’ve been alone there since the caravan was attacked. Several nights by now.

“If he wasn’t, do you think he’d ask us for help?” Otabek points out, but Ulyrau remains ill at ease. Otabek leans down and offers his hand to the stranger. “Come,” he says, beckoning, as though he was coaxing a frightened, young horse.

The boy hesitates, but then dashes forwards and grabs Otabek’s arm, using his momentum and Otabek’s upwards pull to swing onto the horse behind him. He’s nimble and light, and trembling viciously. The boy jolts when Janibek whistles from above them, having stopped to watch on the edge of the valley. Ulyrau starts up after Janibek with many a backwards glance, while Otabek takes the boy’s hands and places them around himself to make sure he stays mounted as they traverse the slope.

“Dad is not going like this,” Janibek snarls as soon as Otabek is within hearing range, betraying his apprehension.

“It’s a human being,” Otabek says calmly. Janibek scowls and presses his horse forwards, hurrying ahead. Ulyrau is still uncertain, but then takes off after Janibek, leaving Otabek and the boy to bring up the rear.

Otabek doesn’t hurry but neither does he tarry. While he’s not cold, his newly acquired passenger is, pressing against Otabek’s back as close as he can, and Otabek watches the white fingers clutching at blue sleeves around his middle. Altynbek is the head of the family, and he’ll judge based on the welfare of that family, but he isn’t cruel, and while he’s often scolded Otabek for being too soft-hearted when it comes to rescuing small animals, he won’t be able to scold anyone for helping a human being.

“I suppose you don’t understand me,” Otabek says over his shoulder. The boy makes a hesitant questioning noise that isn’t any word Otabek knows. “I thought so. Well, I can’t talk with animals either. Isn’t that right, Burr?” He pats the horse’s neck. Communication isn’t just words.

He lets his horse pick the route back to the group, but not at outright gallop out of consideration for the boy. Even with a passenger, he catches back up to the family with ease. The carts are slow, and often the wives and children walk beside them instead of riding them or horses. It gives them an opportunity to also gather fuel for their fires and other plant material for a variety of needs.

Altynbek rides at the front of his family, this time flanked by his brother, Otyrau, whose horse sports a perch for his hunting eagle. The eagle itself is not there, but high above them, looking like it’s hovering still. Janibek is there too, and he gives Otabek and his passenger a scowl that is very reminiscent of their father when Otabek gets close. The boy riding behind Otabek holds onto him even harder, gasping at the sight of Altynbek’s second wife riding a camel instead of a horse, swaying above everybody like the empress she thinks she is.

“Otabek,” his father says, expecting him to fill out the blanks on his own.

“We found a survivor,” Otabek says. “One out of twelve. They were killed and looted.”

“Do you know who did it?” Otyrau asks, having clearly been fetched from minding their herd of horses to hear about the attack, and now, about the survivor.

“No. Arrows and blades,” Otabek says.

“And your reasoning behind taking on this… foreigner?”

Altynbek had asked something similar before, but only when Otabek had brought back a lynx cub he’d found whimpering next to its dead mother. The boy behind him digs under Otabek’s leather outercoat and grasps onto the hilt of his knife.

“He shouldn’t starve,” Otabek says, covering the boy’s cold hand with his own, both to keep him from actually drawing the knife and to soothe. “Or die of exposure. Not when I can help him. That’s too cruel.”

Altynbek runs his hand over his face and then over his hair, the braided tail they all wear with the sides shorn. “It’s your responsibility,” he says then. He isn’t a heartless man, and they have enough food to spare.

“Whatever he does, it’s your responsibility,” Otyrau echoes. He won’t go against the headman, but it’s his duty to consider the other side of any issue they encounter, whatever his actual opinions.

On the other hand, Janibek doesn’t bother hiding his derision at their decision, and peels off with the thundering of his horse’s hooves signalling his exit.

“Does he know our language?” Altynbek asks, eyeing the boy.

“I don’t think so,” Otabek says, feeling the boy yank on the knife, but he closes his hand tighter around the white fingers and holds him still.

“Hope he knows how to ride,” Otyrau adds. “I’m going back.”

“Take Janibek with you,” Altynbek says as his brother starts veering off to return to the herd. “And bring Kireybek with you tonight. We’ll talk more about all of this.” Otyrau nods his understanding, and Altynbek turns back to Otabek. “You better go tell your mother.”

“Yes, I know,” Otabek says and lets Burdock trot around in a large semicircle. His passenger lets go of the knife’s hilt and leans into Otabek’s back. He doesn’t attempt to follow the rhythm of the horse’s gait, and Otabek wonders if that’s because he doesn’t know how or because he’s tired.

To Otabek, someone who doesn’t know how to ride is the strangest thing. His culture is born and carried on horseback. The vast, arid steppes that reach all the way up to the taiga of the north and the mountain ranges of the south give them the space to roam after their livestock. Horses, sheep, some cattle, and even camels.

There had been no dead horses left behind with the wreckage of the wagons. Their horses would have been considered more valuable than the passengers themselves. Otabek wishes he could ask the boy what happened, but instead he heads back along the procession of carts until he comes to the one driven by his mother, Eyinzhu. She is Altynbek’s first wife and no longer has young children of her own.

“My light,” she greets him. “I saw you coming from afar, and I thought at least it’s not a lynx cub this time.” She peers at the boy. “But is this better or worse?”

“I think he’d like something to drink and eat,” Otabek says. “And something to wear.”

The cart horses are chosen for their gentle and stable natures, and the animal is not bothered that its driver lets go of the reins and looks into the cart. “I have some of this morning’s milk and sausage.” She brings out a skin of milk and unstoppers it, reaching over to offer it to Otabek’s passenger.

Otabek feels the hesitation, then the boy unhooks one arm from around Otabek and takes the skin. He drinks but immediately spits the mare’s milk out onto the ground, swearing under his breath. Otabek doesn’t have to know the language to understand the meaning.

“Maybe some water?” Otabek suggests. Eyinzhu sighs.

“Milk would be better for a child,” she says judgementally, but offers him the water skin next.

“I don’t think he’s a child,” Otabek says. The boy takes the new skin and sniffs it carefully, then empties it in one go. He can’t see his passenger, other than the blue sleeve and the pale and dirty hand over his belt.

“Such interesting eyes,” Eyinzhu continues.

The boy says something much calmer and hands the water skin back.

“Are you sure he’s not a lynx cub?” she says. “I’ve never seen a human boy with eyes like that.” She shares a slightly more worried look with Otabek. “Maybe he isn’t human.”

“What steppe spirit is thirsty or hungry? Or cold?” Otabek counters. The boy doesn’t refuse the piece of sausage Eyinzhu offers him, and after a first taste, eats it all noisily, then wipes his greasy hands on his trousers.

“Are you thinking of leaving him with me?” Eyinzhu asks after handing the boy Otabek’s winter fur coat from the packages piled in the cart.

Otabek tries to have another look at his passenger, but only catches a corner of him, bright blue and pale hair, as he quickly snuggles up into the fur, then catches his hands around Otabek’s waist again. “No,” Otabek says. “He’s my responsibility.”

But more than just responsibility, he feels an urge to protect, like with the small orphaned animals he’d picked up and rehabilitated before. And with the protectiveness comes the same possessiveness that had made him carry the lynx cub under his coat for warmth until it’d been too big. This cub hides under his coat too.

“You’re so troublesome,” Eyinzhu says. “Are you still riding out?”

“Yes.”

“Just remain careful. Of that too.” She nods her head towards the boy.

“I will, mom,” Otabek promises, heading his horse off again. The boy hardly seems dangerous. Or only as dangerous as the lynx cub; he might borrow a knife to be his little claws.

They’re accustomed to being on the move, often for the whole day when moving from pasture to pasture during the summer months. But the season has turned from summer to autumn, and Otabek’s family is on their way south to their winter pastures. A time during which they also stop very little. Otabek hopes his new ward can handle it.

Travelling on the cart would probably be much more comfortable for him, but as it is, Otabek keeps him on as a passenger. When the boy’s hold on him grows lax and his weight grows even more heavy and unwieldy behind him, Otabek realises he must’ve fallen asleep. There’s little he can do about it, and he feels sorry for the boy, so he only folds the boy’s hands under his belt and hopes he’ll stay on without much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altynbek (family headman)  
> Eyinzhu: Kireybek (25), Otabek (18)  
> Pinar: daughter (24), daughter (20), Janibek (17), Birsen (12)  
> Dilraba: Sarnai (3), baby (0)
> 
> Otyrau (Altynbek's brother)  
> wife 1: son (22), daughter (19)  
> wife 2: son (20), Ulyrau (15), Aigerim (8)
> 
> Kireybek (Altynbek's 1st son)  
> Beshkina: Suyumbek (5), baby (1)


	2. Chapter 2

The evening meal is often a shared one between the whole family group, and it offers a moment to talk about the day and plan for the next one. Sleeping arrangements vary. Sons without their own families or wives reunite their mothers when it’s time to make camp. Otabek is the youngest of Eyinzhu and Altynbek and shares the night camp with her alone. His single older brother has his own family.

Otabek knows he needs to take part in the shared meal because of his new ward. The boy slides stiffly off the horse at the end of the day and staggers on the ground, rubbing his backside. Otabek unmounts and pulls the boy into the lee of his mother’s cart. The nights are no longer warm, but Otabek is used to sleeping without the cover of a lean-to or yurt until snowfall. He doesn’t think the same is true of the boy.

He helps his mother set up camp while the boy stretches and tries to move his sore limbs, grimacing. When the small cooking fire is going and Otabek has found a spare bedroll, he sits the boy down. The boy immediately reaches for the fire, holding his hands in the warm glow while Otabek cares for the horses. The well-being of their horses equals their own well-being, and Otabek has always enjoyed the company of the gentle creatures. Their flightiness is adorable, and they have soft noses.

“I’m going over,” Eyinzhu says, glancing towards the others already gathering together. “Or do you want me to stay until you’re ready?”

“No, go,” Otabek says. “It’s fine. I doubt he can harm me,” he assures her as she glances warily at the boy.

“You said the same about the lynx cub,” Eyinzhu says. “And how did that end?”

Otabek rubs the scars left by the panicked cat and smiles. “I doubt this one has claws like that.”

Eyinzhu shakes her head, but picks up her shawl and heads for the big fire. The boy has barely moved, but he accepts the waterskin Otabek offers him before returning to the horses.

Otabek takes his responsibilities seriously, so once the horses are free of their harnesses, rubbed down, and watered, he makes sure the boy is still all right, as well. He’s sitting curled up with his knees to his chest and arms around them, yawning into the soft blue cloth of his trousers and fighting sleep. _Like a small animal_ , Otabek thinks and fights a smile.

There’s some noise from the gathering, but it seems like they’re still eating, not discussing the day’s events, so Otabek crouches by the boy, making him open a wary set of eyes. It’d be unkind to leave the boy without a meal.

“I’m Otabek,” Otabek says, tapping his chest, then gestures at the boy. “You?”

The boy looks at him, and his eyes do remind Otabek of the big cats too, so light they’re almost luminous, even in the dark. “Юрий,” the boy says then, indicating himself.

“Ah,” Otabek hesitates. “Yu-”

“Юрий!” the boy repeats, thumping his chest for emphasis.

“Yuri?”

The boy—Yuri—nods. “Отабек,” he says, pointing at Otabek.

“Yes.” Otabek nods too, then fetches another waterskin. “Drink.”

Yuri drinks, keeping an eye on Otabek while he does so. Otabek brings out more of the sausage and a container of gelatinous broth, which he sets to warm up by the fire while he pierces the sausages with skewers and arranges them over the same fire. Yuri seems very interested in the food, and Otabek can’t blame him. As soon as the sausages are sizzling, Yuri takes one of the skewers and picks at the sausage with his fingers, hissing when he’s burned. Otabek has more patience with his and leaves it to cool a bit while he makes sure there’s still water for the morning.

He watches Yuri from the corner of his eye, fascinated by the ethereal eyes and pale hair, which looks silky despite being dirty. The bones of his wrists are very prominent, and the way he eats says he’s been hungry a while. He doesn’t seem dangerous. Yuri shields his eyes from the glare of the fire while Otabek eats and looks up at the cloud-filled dark sky as if searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” Otabek asks after he finishes his meal, gaining Yuri’s attention. Yuri watches his mouth and frowns, as if trying to will the words to make sense. He’s so intense that Otabek falls into a smile.

But by then the younger ones of the family are already being taken to sleep, and the evening meal is winding down. Altynbek calls for Otabek, so Otabek finishes the water in the skin and licks the grease of the sausage off his lips. When he gets up, Yuri twitches, eyes widening from their half-closed state.

“Go to sleep,” Otabek says and points at the bedroll. “I’ll be right over there.” He points at the communal cooking fire, then heads over. When he glances back, Yuri is staring after him, but staying put.

The people at the fire are five. The heads of their respective families, Altynbek and Otyrau, as well as Otabek’s true older brother Kireybek, their mother Eyinzhu, and Altynbek’s second wife, Pinar. The gold piercing on the side of Pinar’s nose catches the firelight as she turns.

“I don’t feel safe,” she says as soon as Otabek is close enough to hear. “What about my daughter? What about the rest of the children?” All the men at the fire except for Otabek have young children.

“That foreigner is a child himself,” Altynbek says with the tone of someone who’s already heard the argument more than once. “I don’t see the harm in bringing him with us.”

“But how far is he supposed to travel with us?” Pinar mutters, pouting. She is from a southern tribe, and a very beautiful woman. Her beauty has translated to all her four children, including Janibek. However, that beauty also seems to come with a haughty manner.

“That’s a fair question,” Eyinzhu agrees. Although she doesn’t always see eye-to-eye with Pinar, they’ve been married to the same man for a long time and have an understanding. Otabek helps himself to the tea, realising he should have made some for Yuri, and looks towards his mother’s cart to make sure Yuri is still there.

“So, Otabek, are you sure he doesn’t speak our language?” Altynbek turns to him.

“I’m pretty confident he doesn’t,” Otabek says, snapping back to the discussion.

Kireybek clicks his tongue in amusement, leaning over to cuff Otabek on the arm. “How do you always do this? First it was birds, now it’s humans?”

“Something like that is out of place, isn’t it?” Otyrau says, ignoring Kireybek’s comment. “Those Muscovite wagons. How long do you think they’d been dead?”

“Days,” Otabek replies, thinking back to the state of the dead bodies. He feels a little sorry for Ulyrau, having had to see a scene like that. Dead things are never easy to look at, especially ones already decomposing, and human. “Maybe eight or ten days? There were no dead horses, so I suppose whoever attacked them might have been after the horses.”

“If it’s like this,” Altynbek says, stroking his chin in thought. “Taking him all the way to Seven Rivers would be best. The Elderman speaks Rus, and there might be other Muscovite traders still there.”

“One more person doesn’t make a difference,” Kireybek backs up their father.

“It will if he goes after _your_ child,” Pinar says, childishly frustrated. Kireybek’s son is the second youngest in the family. “My people always said the Rus are monsters and cannibals. It’s always winter and always dark where they live, so they have to eat their own because all the animals are already dead.”

Eyinzhu gets up, making the familiar face of having had enough of her fellow wife. “He’s just a child too,” she says in defence that’s mostly borne from the fact that she’s from a Northern tribe, closer to the settlements of the Rus, and not from the fact she needs to defend the boy. “I’ve heard enough. Good night.”

“It’s settled,” Altynbek says, despite Pinar’s huff of disagreement. “Otabek.”

“Yes, I know,” Otabek says. “My responsibility.”

They disband from the fire and return to their sleeping arrangements. Altynbek goes with Pinar, pulling her to his side protectively. Otabek refills his cup of tea and hurries after his mother after bidding goodnight to his brother and uncle. Back by his mother’s cart, the fire is only a pile of glowing embers, and Yuri is curled up almost too close to it, fast asleep.

“Thank you,” Otabek says quietly as they settle down. “You were defending me.”

Eyinzhu lies down in her bedroll, under the awning erected from the side of the cart. “She was being annoying,” she says. “Cannibals! Tch.”

Otabek, who’d brought the tea for Yuri, drinks it so it doesn’t go to waste, hovering over his new charge. He does look very young when he’s asleep, although the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes say otherwise. He wouldn’t have become that thin in just ten days. _Sometimes it’s better for the animal to be killed, so it doesn’t suffer_ , he thinks, remembering those horses that break their legs. But surely that doesn’t apply to humans? Even ones so far out of their place. Animals out of their place die because they can’t adapt that fast.

“That child smells,” Eyinzhu says, sighing. “He needs a proper wash.”

“He has a wound on his leg too,” Otabek adds, moving his bedroll closer to Yuri’s. “Can you take a look at it?”

“What do I know of treating wounds?” she huffs, turning her back towards them. “Ask your other mothers.”

Otabek snorts into the last mouthful of tea he has, amused by her wilfulness. “All right,” he says and gets ready to sleep, staring at the back of Yuri’s head until he can’t hold his eyes open any longer.

~

There is no big fire in the morning. The world is grey with pre-dawn light, and the breath of the horses creates a cloud of mist above them. The grasses are bearded with frost. When Otabek sits up from his bedroll, the first thing he does is check on Yuri. The boy is still there, curled up into a tight ball under the felt covering of the bedroll and Otabek’s winter coat. There’s even a touch of frost on the fur of the coat, and in the pale light, even Yuri’s hair looks more white than yellow.

As Otabek sits up, rubbing his face and his head, he finds he’s not the only one interested in looking at Yuri. His youngest sibling, the three-year-old Sarnai, is crouched by the horses, unafraid of the tall animals, but clearly wary of the pale boy.

“Sarnai,” Otabek whispers, beckoning her. “Don’t be afraid. He’s just like you and me.”

She doesn’t hesitate to climb into his lap, if only to get a closer look at Yuri. She squeaks in fright when Yuri’s eyes fly open just as she’s leaning in and hides under Otabek’s arm. Yuri springs up to his hands and feet, head swivelling as he takes in the situation, and for a moment, Otabek is certain he’ll run away.

“Cat!” Sarnai declares, peeking at Yuri. He tugs at Otabek’s sleeve and points, no longer afraid. “It’s a cat!”

Yuri whips his head around, alarmed, scowling at the child, but then his eyes land on Otabek and he lets out a breath, relaxing like a skin being emptied of water. Sarnai squirms out of Otabek’s lap and approaches with the bravery of a child.

“Cat,” she says again, touching Yuri’s hair, only to have Yuri hiss and withdraw hurriedly. It startles her so badly she falls onto her rear and bursts into surprised tears. Otabek scoops her up quickly, but her cry—even if already becoming nothing but hiccoughs—has already brought her mother running over.

“She’s not hurt,” Otabek tells Dilraba, his father’s third wife and mother of Sarnai, as soon as she arrives.

“I hadn’t even noticed she was gone,” Dilraba says, squeezing her daughter close. “I thought she was still asleep so I was making some porridge…” She kisses and cuddles Sarnai with the worry of a new mother with her first child. She’s only a little older than Otabek, and unlike the self-assured Eyinzhu or the striking Pinar, she’s sweet and kind.

“She was just surprised,” Otabek says. “This is Yuri,” he gestures at the boy. “He’s the one I found yesterday at the wagons, and Sarnai was trying to make friends with him.”

Dilraba peers at Yuri, and Sarnai who seems to have forgotten her earlier fright, tugs on her mother’s braid and points at Yuri, repeating _cat_. Dilraba hides a smile behind Sarnai’s head, glancing at Otabek. “He does look like a cat, doesn’t he? Those eyes.”

“Would you fetch me some water, my light?” Eyinzhu says behind them.

“Oh no, my porridge!” Dilraba remembers and hurries off with her daughter.

“That child is either going to grow up to be handsome or unfortunate,” Eyinzhu mutters, sweeping her eyes across the situation at her hearth. “She looks exactly like you did as a baby. Sometimes I think you must be the father.”

“Mom,” Otabek objects to the taboo subject. “Don’t say things like that.” There’s no one to hear their conversation except Yuri, but Otabek still glances around to make sure the rest of the family is busy with their preparations for the day’s journey.

“Hurry up with the water,” Eyinzhu says, rousing last night’s fire from the banked embers.

“It’ll be a while,” Otabek says, gathering some of his clothes and toiletries, then crouches by Yuri, who’s been watching them. “You told me to have him wash. Good morning, Yuri.”

Yuri pinches his mouth shut and gives a suspicious look, so Otabek moves on. There’s no way to force trust from animals. Otabek cleans up his bedroll, then looks at Yuri and the bedroll he’d borrowed. After Eyinzhu clicks her tongue, Yuri shoots up and shakes out the bedroll and rolls it up like Otabek had done, then huddles in the coat, looking around. Otabek gives him one of the waterskins to carry and gestures for him to follow.

A mist still lingers above the ground, making it difficult to estimate distances. The colours shift from ashy white to grey and faint pinks and lilacs as the morning progresses. Otabek has seen this morning many times over. If he didn’t know his family was camped just nearby, the faint sounds of people would be terrifying, seemingly coming out of nowhere in the mist. Only close by the clouds give way to the dark, familiar shapes of the horses and their carts.

However, this isn’t ordinarily a moment Otabek shares with anyone, but he thinks it could be something that is making Yuri uncomfortable. He pulls his shirt up and undoes the overlapping part of his trousers, pulling his member out to relieve himself. Yuri makes a noise of distress and surprise, but after a moment, Otabek hears the telltale sound of him relieving himself as well.

Afterwards, in somewhat awkward silence, Otabek takes Yuri to the stream they’ve been following. It’s the same waterway where the wagons had been stranded, farther upriver, just narrower at this stage. The water’s surface is still shrouded with mist, but the frost on the grass has already turned to nothing but sogginess.

“The days when you can’t see very far are strange,” Otabek says. The sun is already up, but it’s just a glowing ball of clouds behind the mist.

“Что?” Yuri says, and Otabek is both surprised and pleased to hear him say something, and even if he doesn’t understand the word, he understands the question.

“I’m used to seeing the horizon,” Otabek explains as they come to the water. “You’ll feel better after washing,” Otabek says. “Me too. I think we both need it.”

During the summer, when they’re on the move, it’s easier to just bathe in running water. Bathing with heated water is a winter luxury, although the season of autumn creates a sometimes troublesome period of not-one-or-the-other with its weather, and even Otabek grimaces at the feel of the cold water as he tries it with his hand.

“It’s fine until it ices over,” he says to convince himself and puts the bundle of clothes and woollen towels on a rock by the water and begins to undress. “You too,” he tells Yuri, but finds Yuri staring up at the sky.

Yuri shades his eyes against the diffuse glow of the sun, then turns left and points, saying something and repeating it over his shoulder until Otabek reacts.

“North?” Otabek guesses from the direction. “That way’s north.”

Yuri repeats the words again as if pleading for something.

“Yes, that’s north,” Otabek agrees, then shakes his head. They’re travelling to the exact opposite direction, south-by-southeast. “Sorry. I guess that’s where you’re from? The north?” Otabek has only a very faint grasp of the geography beyond the central plains he’s travelled across all his life. He knows there’s forests to the north, the thought of which make him uncomfortable because there’s no horizon. His mother had explained it to him. And to the south, beyond Seven Rivers, is something arid and mountainous

Yuri points again, but then gives up with a sigh. He gestures at the water instead, asking another question Otabek doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, we’re going to wash,” Otabek says and pulls off his undershirt. It still takes a bit to force himself to walk into the water.

Yuri follows him slowly, clutching the long coat around himself. He reaches down to touch the water. “Нет,” he says instantly and backs away.

“Yes,” Otabek insists. He splashes himself with water, groaning. He ducks his head and brings water to his face and neck, roughly scrubbing his torso with his hands and the cold water. “Yuri,” he says and points at the water.

Yuri makes an impolite noise under his breath and drops the borrowed coat, then undoes his fine white leather belt and pulls off his blue overshirt with its stained golden embroidery. He has another shirt on under it, a soft white one that has a particular sheen to it. It’s stained too, and it comes off too along with his leather boots with their slightly upwards pointed toes and the similarly blue trousers. Then Yuri joins Otabek by the water’s edge and puts his hands in the water, shivering.

His ribs are so prominent Otabek can count each by its shadow. There are some darker patches here and there, bruises, and a few scrapes, which are easy to see against his pale skin, and the bigger slash along his thigh. Yuri gasps at the temperature of the water, but resolutely wades in, making the worst face and repeating a word, which Otabek assumes from the tone of voice to be a curse.

While washing their hands and faces, and Otabek shows how to use a rough cloth and some herbal paste mixed with salt to clean his teeth. Yuri watches and follows his example. As they rinse their mouths with the water, Yuri splashes Otabek’s face and gives a short laugh. It’s hoarse and lacking the warmth of amusement, but they have a short water fight which has no winners. It’s a language they both speak.

By the time they get out of the water, both moved to shaking, the rising sun has dispersed most of the fog and revealed a sloping view of undulating flatland under a similarly rolling sky of passing clouds. Otabek shakes out one of the woollen towels and folds it over Yuri, rubbing him vigorously with it to warm him up. The fineness of Yuri’s clothes and the thinness of his body are incongruous, but the wound on his leg doesn’t seem severe, and it doesn’t have the ruddy shine of inflammation. Faint body hair glistens with wetness between Yuri’s legs, a detail which Otabek feels guilty about noticing, but it further supports his idea that Yuri isn’t really a child, or only as much as a child as Otabek is at eighteen. But he _is_ tiny.

“Sharing clothes isn’t usually a good idea,” Otabek says suddenly enough to make Yuri start. “But I don’t know what else to do in your case.” He wraps the other towel around himself and separates the bundle of clothes he’d brought, packing up the blue ones and the shiny, soft undershirt Yuri had had on. “Yours are too dirty. I can’t do anything about the shoes, though.”

After getting dressed and filling the waterskins, Otabek takes the frozen Yuri back to his mother’s cart. Thanks to the cleared mist and the family getting ready to move, Pinar’s camel is standing up in its colourful, tasselled dress, and Yuri stops to stare until the cold forces him to huddle near the fire again. He accepts a share of tea and food, while Otabek hurries to dress the horses as well while Eyinzhu packs their camp away before a high, ululating whistle calls the family to move.

Otabek leaps onto Burdock, who’s already eager to go, and swings Yuri up behind himself. Yuri takes Otabek’s braided tail of hair and tosses it over Otabek’s shoulder to his front before wrapping his hands loosely around Otabek’s hips. The weight of him makes Otabek’s horse nicker and toss her head, then glance at Otabek with one eye.

“I know,” Otabek tells Burdock and pats her. “But he’s not that heavy, is he?”

They leave the main group behind as Burdock’s stride lengthens to a canter to fly them across the land. His horse’s gait is different with Yuri sitting behind him, noticeable to someone who’s spent his whole life on horseback. Otabek finds himself sitting differently too and has to consciously adjust his seat to remain relaxed. The sky and the grass keep them company most of the morning. On dry days, the dust cloud kicked up by the herd of horses travelling parallel to the family is visible, but the ground is still damp from the melted frost.

“Doesn’t feel like you’re alive until you’re on horseback, does it?” Otabek comments, slowing down to give Burdock a rest. She’s carrying an extra person. He doesn’t expect a reply from Yuri but gets one anyway in the form of a few quiet words and Yuri pulling on his sleeve to point at the sky, making Otabek aware of the eagle flying high above them.


	3. Chapter 3

Midday is bright if not hot. Yuri is all but asleep on Burdock when the whistle to stop for rest comes, with Otabek walking by to make sure he stays up there while nodding off. _He isn’t used to this kind of travel,_ Otabek muses, watching Yuri start awake and cast around. The small brightening of his face when he spots Otabek is enough.

“Отабек,” Yuri says, gesturing. He points his thumb at his mouth and tilts his head back, making exaggerated glugging sounds, then looks at Otabek expectantly.

“Thirsty?” Otabek guesses and comes to the horse to lift his waterskin off the saddle. “Here. Finish it, so I can refill it before we go back to eat. Burr probably needs a drink too.” He pats his horse on the shoulder and clicks his tongue at her. She responds by turning to follow him to the water’s edge. By then, Yuri has emptied the skin, and takes the initiative to dismount and fill it on his own, splashing water onto his face.

While the horse and Yuri sate their thirst, Otabek spots movement on the grassy flatland across the water. “Look,” he says, touching Yuri’s shoulder. “Saiga antelopes. They’re migrating.”

They watch the animals for a while, then Yuri elbows Otabek and makes gestures over his nose, mimicking the long overhanging nose of the saiga. He even smiles slightly. Otabek is struck by the greenness of his eyes.

“They are funny, aren’t they?” Otabek murmurs. “We should go back to get something to eat.” He has travel rations, and often he doesn’t go back to the carts during the midday rest, preferring to stay alone, but now he has a further responsibility. “How’s your leg?” He doesn’t quite touch the side of Yuri’s thigh.

Yuri follows his mouth, then the gesture, then says something and shrugs.

“Guess that’s as good as can be,” Otabek deduces. “Do you want to ride back? Or walk?”

Yuri just shrugs again, but when Otabek mounts his horse, he comes close and waits expectantly, holding out his hand for Otabek to pull him up. On their way back, they cross paths with Janibek, also on outriding duty.

“I can’t believe father let you keep him,” Janibek says darkly. Like his mother, he has thick eyebrows and hair that tends more towards blue-black.

“Since he did, why do you feel the need to talk about it?” Otabek says. Yuri grasps at his belt, looking for the knife’s handle.

“I think it’s wrong,” Janibek says with loathing and kicks his horse into a canter to outdistance them.

“He’s a restless one,” Otabek says, easing Yuri’s fingers off his knife. “Don’t mind him. Wait till you meet his mother.”

They rejoin the caravan at a slow trot and find Altynbek riding next to Otabek’s mother’s cart.

“Otabek,” Altynbek says in greeting. “How’s your burden?”

Yuri and Otabek grapple for the possession of the knife. “Fine,” Otabek says.

“Our youngest hasn’t changed at all,” Altynbek remarks to Eyinzhu.

She laughs. “Why would he? You always encourage him.”

“Until that lynx cub,” Altynbek sighs. “The tailless lizards he cried about as a child were fine. The small birds I understood. Even the mice and rabbits. And the wolf. Now it’s a human.” Altynbek shakes his head. “We break at Three Sisters when we reach them. A few more days, I think.”

“I know,” Otabek says, ignoring their talk of his past adventures in wild animal husbandry. This is his 18th autumn coming back the same route, with the same routine. They’ve always stopped at the pastures and seasonal market of the Three Sisters.

“If you insist on bringing this boy-”

“Yuri,” Otabek inserts.

“At least get him a horse.” Altynbek raises his voice slightly to speak over him. “That’s no way to ride.”

“I know. I will,” Otabek says. “If mom will lend him one. Dad,” he adds when Altynbek touches his heels to his horse. “We saw a herd of saiga just on the other side of the river. They’re going south too.”

Altynbek strokes his chin with his forefinger and thumb. “So, if we break now, we can hunt.”

Otabek keeps quiet and lets his father think. Hunting isn’t strictly necessary for them and their way of life, but autumn is a good time for it. The animals are plump from the summer’s feeding, and many grow a warmer coat for the winter. Hunting isn’t necessary, but it’s a change of pace, and it’s fun.

A small whinge from Yuri makes Otabek release his fingers, realising he’d been squeezing them the whole time in his attempt to remain unaffected by whatever his father decides.

“What do you think, my heart?” Altynbek asks Eyinzhu, falling into such familiar address with ease. They’ve shared the longest years with each other, and Otabek remembers them being comfortable and loving with each other when he’d been small.

“If you’re going to do it, do it now,” Eyinzhu says. “We’ve already stopped, and there’s enough time left in the day to deal with whatever you catch. _If_ you catch anything.”

“You’re a harsh woman,” Altynbek says, gives Otabek a look, and urges his horse forwards at a trot. He still glances over his shoulder at Eyinzhu and winks. It makes her laugh again.

“He doesn’t mention it, but he’s been waiting for you to marry the last two winters,” she says then.

“Right.” Otabek unloops the waterskins off his saddle and hands them to his mother. “He likes marrying much more than I do.”

“How can you say that when you’ve never married?” But she isn’t affronted on behalf of her husband. “He’s an agreeable man and has fine features, we could’ve all done much worse than him.” She gestures at the carts nearby, Altynbek’s other wives. “And you’re just as handsome as he is. How are you going to be a herdsman without a herd, my light?”

Otabek turns his horse to leave again. He knows better than to get into this conversation although what she’s saying is the truth. The women own the livestock, and without a wife’s dowry, he’s not going to be in the position to raise a herd of his own. “I need to get ready for the hunt. Yuri.” He directs Yuri to dismount, then follows, getting his bow and arrows from the cart. “I’ll have to leave him with you.”

“I guess it can’t be helped,” Eyinzhu says, giving up on both subjects. “What of his leg?”

“The wound isn’t deep. I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Otabek says as the series of short calling whistles come, indicating a hunting party. He hurries to sling his bow over his shoulder and hang the arrows on his saddle, mounting Burdock again. Even she recognises the hunting call and is already pacing forwards, but as he settles in the saddle, Yuri catches up, gesturing at himself, questioning.

“No, I can’t take you now,” Otabek says, shaking his head.

Yuri shakes his head too, repeating a word of denial as he looks at the cart and then gestures for Otabek to come closer and help him up.

“Sorry,” Otabek says, grimacing at Yuri’s stricken look as he hurries his horse forwards. It’s almost enough to make him change his mind even though he knows having a passenger would just be a hindrance, much less one who’s in a weakened condition, unfamiliar with the terrain, the activity, and the requirements.

They have a small hunting party, only Altynbek, Otabek, and Janibek, as well as Ulyrau, and Birsen, the twelve-year-old youngest daughter of Pinar. The rest are either occupied with the herd, too young, or not interested. The daughters of herdsmen are raised in the same environment as the sons: they learn to ride and care for the livestock they’ll come to own, they’re taught to hunt if they’re interested in it, but they must also learn the many duties and skills of a wife. After reaching a marriable age, they marry outside, and leave their birth families. Otabek has already seen his two older sisters and one older cousin marry and leave; it’s the tragedy of women, never to stay with the families they’re born in, but marrying away to create new ones. In the sons’ case, they’re expected to bring their wives and their dowry animals to the family of their fathers.

“One or two animals will be more than enough,” Altynbek advises them as they move towards where Otabek and Yuri had spotted the saiga. “Even one is plenty. Don’t take any chances.”

They have plenty of food, but for travelling it’s usually dried and pickled things instead of fresh for the sake of convenience. Hunting or gathering aren’t their main means of sustenance, but they provide a change to the norm.

“What’s the point of even hunting with that attitude, dad?” Birsen is as impatient and sharp as her brother, although far from the femininity of her mother. She has even forgone the longer dresses and more intricate hairstyles of women in favour of dressing and having the same single plait as a boy would.

“Hunting isn’t catching,” Altynbek replies philosophically as they come to the stream. The horses move to the water automatically, drinking at leisure while their riders study the grazing herd of saiga antelopes on the other side.

The saiga have already moved away from the water, shifting slowly across the landscape as they eat. The antelopes are in various stages of moulting, changing from their reddish summer coats to the grey winter ones. The males have ringed horns.

“I want one with horns,” Janibek declares. “There’s a craftsman at Seven Rivers who carves skulls.”

“First, let’s find a place to cross the river,” Altynbek says, turning his horse to go downstream along the bank. “Otabek, Janibek, since you’re the most experienced, I want you to separate some animals from the main herd for us to chase.”

With Altynbek’s instructions in mind, they separate into two groups upon crossing the water. They hunt with bows, rarely spears. Although the short bows they use are powerful, they’re not meant for bringing down big animals. Many herdsmen only use bows for games of skill rather than hunting, but the ability to be accurate on horseback is still admired and valued.

The wind is dry as Otabek and Janibek ride around the herd in silence. The saiga aren’t as suspicious of people on horseback as they would be of people otherwise. The dampness of the morning has disappeared under the autumn sun, and the top layer of soil has dried enough to create dust around the herd. After a while they aren’t able to see their father or the two others any longer, but a whistle will carry. The whole herd will stampede once they get going, and even though they’re riding animals that are larger than the antelopes, they have to remain careful.

“Look. Isn’t this perfect?” Janibek asks, lowering the piece of cloth he’d used to mask his nose and mouth from the dust. There’s a smaller group slightly separate from the main herd.

“Let’s do it,” Otabek agrees. He takes off his identical mask long enough to whistle long and hard. They’re already moving before he stops, as the herd becomes alarmed.

The dust rises like water from the hooves of the fleeing animals. The colour of light changes, and the sun is veiled off, becoming a hazy, orange flame. The animals bleat in fright, moving in unison. Otabek’s heart beats in time with Burdock’s hooves, striking the reverberating ground in their fourfold rhythm. He lets go of the reins and takes out his bow. He tenses his legs, both to stay on his horse and to lift himself enough to brace against the movement. There’s a young buck, leaping just ahead of him.

_Inhale. Release on the exhale._

In the middle of the thunder of hooves, he becomes aware of the hooting and whooping from his siblings as they ride up beside the fleeing animals. The dusty sun glints off arrow tips, and a young saiga buck stumbles from a solid hit, then recovers. Otabek nocks another arrow, tensing his body and pulling back the bowstring. The buck is just ahead, sprinting erratically in pain and panic.

Burdock surges forwards, straining under Otabek, neck long. The horse and him, not thinking, just reacting to the chase, to the dust and sweat and rushing blood. And it’s the same for all of them, visible in the panting breaths and red faces as they surround the animal about to die. Birsen leaps down off her horse to cut the buck’s throat, and for a moment, they’re quiet, listening to the faraway thunder of the herd moving on, watching the dust settle and reveal a different sun, thankful for their catch.

The buck’s blood stains the ground and the flank of Birsen’s horse as they secure it there. Her arrows had been the truest, so the kill goes to her. On the way back, everyone is in high spirits. They stop at the stream to wash dust off themselves before returning to the day camp, where the wives and children come up to them, full of excited chatter. The children duck between the horses and their legs without fear, and Otabek looks for Yuri.

Eyinzhu stands by the blue and yellow awning of her cart, arms crossed, as Otabek breaks through the others. “So you caught something,” she says with the air of someone who’s worn out.

“Fresh meat for supper,” Otabek says, dismounting. He peers under the awning and spots Yuri sitting with his knees drawn up and forehead pressed against them. “Yuri?”

Yuri’s lifts his head and sits up.

“I think it'd be best if you took him with you everywhere from now on,” Eyinzhu says as Yuri comes out from under the awning, peering around, suspicious of the noise.

“Why’s that?” Otabek pats and hugs and scratches Burdock while taking off her reins and saddle. They’re both dusty and sweaty, but the horse comes first. Otabek presses his forehead against Burdock’s, but feels Yuri tug on his coat.

“The children have been here all morning, teasing him and trying to climb in.” Eyinzhu sighs. “We're both tired.”

Otabek nods. He's responsible. “Sorry. You want to help?” he asks Yuri.

“A roast saiga will be nice,” Eyinzhu says. “The boy’s eyes glow in the dark.”

“Mom,” Otabek says, fetching the items needed for brushing down his horse. “They don't.”

Eyinzhu sniffs. “I know. It's the children, talking nonsense all day.”

“Didn't we talk nonsense when we were small?” Otabek asks, handing the brush to Yuri while Burdock moves to drink from the trough, and Otabek picks up her feet one by one to make sure they’re healthy.

“Of course you did,” Eyinzhu says. “But you were mine, so it was different. I'm an old woman now, and I'm owed some silence.” Despite her words, she dotes on her grandchild. She’d never been able to carry another child after Otabek’s birth. A lot of children are lost on the plains.

“We’ll be quiet,” Otabek says, touching Yuri’s shoulder. “Yuri. Like this.” He wets a piece of soft leather and begins wiping Burdock down. After the flurry of the hunt, caring for her is calming, and Yuri seems curious if not knowledgeable about the chore.

By the time both Burdock and Sweetgrass—the cart horse—are groomed, and Otabek has finally gotten to take off his dusty clothes and wipe off the worst, the scent of roasting meat is spreading from the big cooking fire. Yuri fidgets by the cart, glancing towards the fire and the others gathered there, and Otabek spends his time watching Yuri swallow over and over again, then lick his lips and fidget more. It isn’t difficult to guess the reason for his restlessness because Otabek’s mouth is also filled with saliva at the smell of food, but he has the benefit of distraction with watching Yuri.

There’s always something to do, so while they wait, Otabek cleans and mends a spare saddle. The sound of a dombra rises from the middle of the gathering, encouraged by clapping and laughter and singing. Otabek has held himself and Yuri back at the cart and is surprised when Yuri gets up to stand outside the awning as if he wants to go closer.

“Отабек,” he says, gesturing at the fire, at himself, at his mouth, and makes chewing noises, then makes the question noises of his tongue.

“So it’s the food, after all,” Otabek murmurs.

Yuri looks like a little bird in too big feathers wearing Otabek’s clothes. The knee-length belted-at-the-waist overcoat comes to mid-shin, almost touching the top of the soft, foreign boots. The tough boots Otabek is used to come up to the knee; both men and women wear similar ones. The difference in clothing is in the coat and the underlayers, where women have more fullness and length, giving them a slightly different shape. Yuri is somehow falling between the two in his borrowed outfit.

“Don’t worry.” Otabek says. “Everyone gets a share.”

Yuri makes a bunch of impatient expressions and sighs what are clearly rude words under his breath, kicking at clumps of sod on the ground. He come back to the small fire they have for making tea and crouches by it, poking at the embers. In that light, against the darkening sky, his eyes are lambent, and the sight of them remains within Otabek until the long-awaited food is eaten and they go to sleep.

Even then, this time Yuri settles down with his back to the fire and watches Otabek until he drifts off. _Is it curiosity?_ Otabek wonders. He’s curious too. Someone as fair as Yuri stands out, and that fairness makes him seem… naked. His skin is smooth and soft, not wind-chapped and reddened by outdoor life on the steppes, and those light features resonate with something inside Otabek. Yuri is appealing in a way no one else has been.

The distance between them is small, sleeping under the awning. Otabek reaches out and strokes the line of Yuri’s nose with a fingertip. He’d done the same to the lynx cub; it’d helped the small animal sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Afternoons during the autumn aren’t as hot as during the summer, but the sun and the wind are tiring. Yuri is still riding double with Otabek, and Otabek doesn’t feel the need to badger his mother about getting Yuri a horse. He does feel sorry for Burdock having to carry a double load, but he tries to take the strain off her by walking as often as possible.

Yuri comes down too, brushing his flighty hair constantly from his face as the wind buffets it about. He holds on to the side of the saddle as he walks, eyes closed against the unfettered brightness of the flatland. The family has been following the same river for a while, but as the land gets drier, the water has diminished as well. There’s constant dust in the air, and eventually their waterskin is empty.

“Let’s go fill this,” Otabek says. “And Burr needs something to drink too. Don’t you?” He rubs her ears and clicks his tongue, veering slightly off their path towards where the stream had been before.

“Бurr,” Yuri repeats quietly, and Otabek reacts before he can attach thought to it, rubbing Yuri’s ear too.

“Well done,” he murmurs, surprised into thinking about his actions when Yuri draws away, placing his hand over his ear and looking up at Otabek with wide eyes. “Sorry,” Otabek says immediately, tugging on his own ear in embarrassment. “It’ll be faster if we ride,” he decides and mounts Burdock in one leap, then leans down to offer Yuri his arm, which Yuri takes.

His face is very pink, probably from the wind. It’s even visible through his hair, spreading on his scalp.

They ride until a line of shrubs and squat trees marking the waterway appears on the dusty plain, and Otabek steers towards it. The edges of the stream are craggy rock, and he keeps going along the bank until there’s a small slope to the water. That’s where he gets off the horse, lifting his leg over his horse’s head because of Yuri sitting behind him.

“Waterskins,” he says, gesturing for the containers. Yuri hands them over and stays on the horse, looking around with a hand shading his eyes. Otabek leads his horse to drink and does the same himself, then fills the skins, letting Yuri drink and then fills them again.

“You need a hat,” he says, looking up at Yuri. Yuri drops his hand and looks at him searchingly, eyes squinted. It’s a fairly good extrapolation by the children to say that Yuri’s eyes glow in the dark. They’ve not seen that colour before, only the yellow and green flashes of dark-sighted animals on the edges of their firelight. “You have beautiful eyes,” Otabek continues in a murmur, thinking out loud, but something about his tone of voice makes Yuri cover his ear with his hand again.

“I’m not talking about your ear,” Otabek clarifies, although it does nothing to erase the suspicious glint in Yuri’s expression. “Did you think I was saying there was something on your ear before? Most animals like their ears rubbed. I guess you could say it was habit.” He strokes Burdock’s neck and flank, and nuzzles her nose when she turns her face towards him, rubbing both her ears to show Yuri it’s normal.

It seems the showcase is enough to move Yuri’s thoughts forwards. When Otabek looks up, Yuri gestures at Otabek’s hair, then collects his own pale mane into a tail, says something, and lets it loose again, staring expectantly at Otabek.

“I think I understand.” Otabek nods. “Come down,” he instructs, holding out his arms.

Yuri sniffs and unmounts without help.

“I know you’re not a child,” Otabek says, partly to himself, lowering his arms. He pulls his own braid to the front and undoes the end of it to cut a piece of the leather thong used to fasten it. Yuri points at Otabek’s head, then at Burdock, first her mane, then her tail.

“You’re right.” Otabek nods, running a hand over his hair, flinging the tail back over his shoulder. “It is supposed to be like a horse’s mane and tail.” He beckons to Yuri, pointing out a rock for him to sit on. “I don’t know what yours is like. It looks soft.”

Yuri nods too, then makes a gesture between Otabek’s hair and his own, ending with a question noise.

“You want the same?” Otabek echoes the gesture, and Yuri nods again. “Turn around. Sit.”

With Yuri seated on the rock Otabek had pointed out, Otabek pulls his fingers through the pale hair, surprised at its softness. It isn’t as easy to deal with as his thicker hair, especially when the sides aren’t shaved, but he braids Yuri’s hair in the same style as his own, a single plait going down the centre of the head. His tail is also a lot longer than Yuri’s, reaching almost midback. Yuri’s comes only down to the nape of his neck when fashioned in this manner.

Yuri feels his hair with both hands and turns to eye Otabek, one hand lingering over the ear Otabek had touched earlier. “Спасибо,” he says slowly, nodding his thanks, then keeps talking, pointing at Otabek, then towards the distance where the main group is. He puts his hands together and separates them, touching his chest and then pointing towards north with an accompanying explanation.

“You were headed north with your group,” Otabek guesses. “It isn’t a good time to try and cross the plains in wagons,” he explains. “If you hadn’t been attacked, you would’ve probably got stuck in snow later on, maybe starved. I don’t know which is worse.”

Yuri listens with a tilted head, then climbs on the rock he’d used as a seat and looks around a little longer. He begins to talk again, counting with his fingers, making gestures at the sky and the northern horizon that disappears into dust and distance. Otabek reaches out with an arm to make sure Yuri doesn’t slip off the rock only to have Yuri avoid him again by jumping down the other side and hurrying back to Burdock, heaving himself into the saddle and settling in front.

Otabek follows, but doesn’t get on. Yuri is in his place. “That’s not going to work,” he says. “Yuri.”

Yuri refuses to look at him and collects the reins of the horse, nudging her with his heels. Burdock looks at him, then at Otabek, and shakes her mane, returning to nibble on the remaining leaves of the nearby shrub.

“Yuri,” Otabek repeats, but Yuri shakes his head too. “All right, you’ll find out.” Otabek gets on behind Yuri. If having Yuri behind him had been noticeable, this is downright strange.

Otabek reaches around Yuri to hang the waterskins on the knob of his saddle, then rests his hands there, effectively embracing Yuri. “Let’s go,” he says, clicking his tongue. Burdock responds immediately, even though the reins are lax, and starts downstream. The reins are just for fine-tuning, and Otabek doesn’t need them to direct his mount.

Yuri soon becomes frustrated, trying to turn Burdock, and yanks on the reins. “Yuri,” Otabek chides him, enveloping Yuri’s hands with his own. “Don’t be rough. She’s done nothing wrong.”

Yuri responds with a litany of what sound like very bad words and drops the reins, crossing his arms and leaning back into Otabek. He lifts one leg to wrap it around the saddle pommel, making himself comfortable.

It’s an awkward way to ride, but the voluntary and inverted closeness—with Yuri against his chest instead of his back—rouses a deep, pleasant warmth in Otabek. It reminds him of the lynx cub, the needy way in which he’d sucked on Otabek’s fingers, looking for milk and comfort, but it isn’t the same. Yuri is human, making the choice to trust him.

“The people who attacked you,” Otabek murmurs, rousing a question noise from Yuri. “They must’ve not looked like us. If they had, I don’t think you would’ve come out of the wagon to meet us.” He lifts his hand and quickly rubs Yuri’s ear again, testing. “Yuri.”

This time the response is just a huff and Yuri turning his head to the side.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking,” Otabek says, clasping his hands together around Yuri. “Or where you’re from, why you’re here, why your caravan was attacked, or where you were going. Were you going home?” Otabek glances around the dry landscape that doesn’t seem to have an end, just endless rolling ground under a similarly endless sky. “My dad says we’re home as long as we’re on a horse. That’s our place. I wonder where yours is. Or what it is.”

Otabek falls quiet. He doesn’t expect a reply from Yuri, and none comes because Yuri has gone lax in his arms, dozing off.

“You feel that safe with me?” Otabek murmurs, pleased. He tucks Yuri more securely against himself and takes the stirrups from him. Otabek has often dozed off on his horse as well, lulled by the steady walk, but has never gone as far as to truly fall asleep there. The myriad scents he’s accustomed to—the horse, the dust, the whiff of damp from the stream, the wind—are joined by the scent of Yuri’s sweat and a sweet grassy smell, which are not objectionable at all.

~

The afternoon and the evening are slow. Weariness comes with the darkening of the sky. Burdock’s step is slow and short, and Otabek doesn’t bother to hold on to the reins, instead resting his arms around Yuri and his cheek against Yuri’s temple. To Otabek it’s both strange and wonderful.

Their restful travel is interrupted by the signal whistle to stop, echoed in the distance by the men keeping watch over the herd. The duties of those staying with the family and those staying with the herd will be switched after they stop at the Three Sisters. Otabek doesn’t think he can leave Yuri with Eyinzhu when that happens.

“You seem very attached to your cat-eyed ward,” Eyinzhu remarks to that effect as they make camp. Yuri is helping with rubbing down the horses, trying his best to ignore the children who’ve come to look at him again.

“Dad said he’s my responsibility,” Otabek says.

“That’s not what I mean,” she counters.

They’re farther away from the stream this night so they rely on the water in the storage barrels that each cart is carrying. Most of the water is reserved for the horses to drink, and the rest is for cooking and drinking by the family. There’ll be no washing tonight, but the upcoming longer stop at the Three Sisters area will give them the opportunity to fix things that need it, go through their food storage, and wash everything that needs it, including themselves.

“You’ve spoken more to that boy in a day than any of your brothers or cousins in a week,” Eyinzhu continues. She puts the kettle on the side of the fire for tea accompanied by a clay pot with mixed, pickled vegetables and boiled horse meat.

“I don’t need to say anything to my brothers or cousins,” Otabek says, filling the trough from the barrel. Burdock and Sweetgrass come to it immediately, and Otabek spends some time petting the animals for company and relaxation. He’s vaguely aware of Yuri having crouched by the fire to sniff at the food and the children creeping closer.

“Уходи!”

The children flee at the outburst, shrieking and laughing, and hide behind the wheels of the nearest chart, which belongs to Otyrau’s second wife, who is mother to Ulyrau. Sweetgrass whinnies, rolling her head, and almost knocks the trough over in surprise. Eyinzhu clicks her tongue in annoyance, and Yuri crouches back down, glaring at the children.

“I look forwards to my hearth being calm again,” Eyinzhu says.

“Will you lend Yuri a horse when we leave Three Sisters?” Otabek asks. “I’ll have to drive the herd, and I don’t want Burr to have to carry the extra weight.”

“Will you leave that boy with me if I don’t?” Eyinzhu mutters. “Yes, I will lend him a horse. Snow Cloud will do.”

“Thank you,” Otabek says.

The children approach again. There’s giggling, then Suyumbek dashes forwards to touch Yuri, as if he’d been dared to do so. Among the youngest children of the camp, he’s the only boy, and prone to showing off to the two girls. Yuri falls backwards, then scoops up a handful of dirt and throws it at the children, hissing angrily.

“All right, that’s enough!” Eyinzhu tells the children. “Shoo, go back to your mothers.” The answer is more giggles, and as soon as she turns her back to tend to the food, and Otabek is digging a shallow trench for the water trough to sit in, Suyumbek comes out again.

Otabek sees him from the corner of his eye, but just as he drops the edge of the trough into the trench, Yuri snarls and springs up to shove Suyumbek away, making the child crash to the ground and let out a surprised wail.

“No!” Eyinzhu rushes to her grandson’s side, cradling him. She holds out her arm towards Yuri, stopping him from coming closer. The child’s cries soon bring his mother and most of the rest of the family to gather around, with Altynbek forging his way through them.

“What is this?” He’s frowning in a way that reminds Otabek of the times he’d had to discipline him or his brother when they’d been small, but the expression is aimed at Yuri, even though he can’t know for sure the situation has anything to do with Yuri.

“The children were-” Otabek starts, having moved closer, standing just behind Yuri.

“The children were playing!” Eyinzhu interrupts, getting up as Suyumbek’s mother takes him instead. “Beka, he was your responsibility and you let this happen!”

Otabek takes Yuri’s arm only to be pushed away, betrayed by Yuri’s outburst. Under the eyes of his parents and other family, the weight of what he’s done becomes heavy. He’d brought an outsider into their midst. Not just an animal reacting on instinct but a human whose origin and intentions he doesn’t know. The way Yuri’s eyes reflect light as he backs away under the scrutiny of everyone is unsettling.

“The children were _teasing_ him,” Otabek says anyway, coming between Yuri and his family. “He shouldn’t have pushed Suyumbek, but-”

“Is the child unharmed?” Altynbek asks, looking at Yuri, who shirks away, hands balled into fists and trembling.

“I think he’s mostly surprised.” Dilraba comes forwards, Sarnai clinging to her dress. “The same happened earlier with Sarnai, didn’t it?” She smiles at Altynbek and even Yuri.

“That’s… true,” Eyinzhu admits.

“Pretty cat!” Sarnai declares, holding the dress against her face, shyly peering at Yuri.

Beshkina has calmed Suyumbek and shows him to Altynbek without a word. “Everyone,” Altynbek says. “The excitement is over. Go back to your chores.” Bit by bit, as everyone else moves away, he holds Otabek by the shoulder. Sarnai is reluctant to leave and waves at Yuri as her mother herds her away.

“Do you understand your responsibility?” Altynbek asks when it’s just the four of them.

Yuri is still shaken, but he steps forwards and opens his mouth as though he wants to explain, but there’s no words. Otabek’s hand twitches towards him, but his father’s presence drags his attention away.

“I do,” he says, ducking his head in acceptance of his own guilt in the matter.

Altynbek pats his shoulder and leaves towards Beshkina’s cart. Eyinzhu sits stiffly by the fire, refusing to look at either of them. “Beka,” she says sharply. “Tell him not to do that again.”

“Yes,” Otabek agrees. “He probably knows,” he adds. Yuri stares at him from where he’s crouching by the cart, not under the awning.

“Tell him anyway. You can talk to animals.”

Otabek takes her harsh words, glad that Yuri doesn’t understand. _It’s unfair when he can’t even explain his side of the story_ , he thinks. “Yuri.” He comes down to Yuri’s level and holds out his hand the same way he does to frightened foals. “Yuri?”

“Бека?” Yuri says warily.

“Yeah, Beka,” Otabek says. “But that’s what all of my brothers are called too. She only does that when she’s mad at me.”

Otabek remains on his knees and reaches a hand towards Yuri, twitching his fingers in invitation. Yuri comes closer, crouched, balancing himself against the ground with his hands. His eyes flicker from one side to other in suspicion.

“Бека,” he says, gesturing at himself. He starts to say something, then falls quiet.

“I know,” Otabek says.

“I don’t hear you scolding him,” Eyinzhu says. She moves the steaming kettle off the fire with a practised hand, using a thick piece of leather to shield herself from the heat.

“Scolding him?” Otabek sighs. “How do you-” He mimes pushing Yuri over. “No.”

Yuri narrows his eyes but nods.

“There,” Otabek says, looking at his mother.

Eyinzhu rolls her eyes. “You’re the most trouble, Beka. Can’t wait to marry you off to be someone else’s problem.”

“Thanks, mom.” Otabek backs down and shakes their bedrolls open, spreading them in their customary corner. He sits down and begins setting out plates and cups, glancing at Yuri a few times. Yuri shifts quietly onto the bedrolls, sitting with his legs bundled up against his chest, staring into the fire. While Eyinzhu isn’t looking, Otabek reaches out and swiftly caresses Yuri’s ear, cradling the side of his face briefly. It still startles Yuri, but less than before, and he still presses his own hand over his ear when Otabek lets go.


	5. Chapter 5

A soft, cold rain blankets them the following day. It’s not harsh enough to cause them to pause, but it is draining. Even though the drops are small, by late afternoon everything is weighed down by a permeating damp. To keep warm, Yuri and Otabek walk most of the day instead of riding, until the combination of unending semi-arid steppe, low, dark skies, and exercise has worn them down.

Eyinzhu had been cold to them during the midday rest and meal, so Otabek doesn’t bother taking them back to the carts when they stop for a while in the very early evening. A fire isn’t possible, which also makes a hot drink impossible, and they huddle next to a formation of boulders, eating and drinking. Afterwards Yuri points his gaze at the sky and watches, humming under his breath. The whispered drone of his voice fits the weather.

“You look sad,” Otabek says, which earns him a look flicked in his direction and the end of the humming. The space is taken over by the silence of the nature; there’s no birds in the rain. Even Burdock is quiet, standing with her head down and still. The boulders offer them some shelter against the insistent rain, but not enough to be dry. Yuri shivers occasionally, clutching his knees against his chest.

“Last spring I found a lynx cub next to his dead mother. I think the cub had been born out of season, he was so small,” Otabek says. Not to fill the silence, but to distract them both. Yuri listens with an intensity born out of not being able to understand, turning to watch Otabek’s mouth. “I couldn’t leave him to die, so I brought him with me. Nobody was happy about it, and the cub made many messes. Mom was the least happy, but in the end, she was sad too when the cub left.”

Yuri makes a small assenting noise. His lashes are spiky and his face is beaded with moisture. His whole face is very pale, even his lips, so the green of his eyes shows up as too strong.

“I miss that cub,” Otabek says. “He was warm and cute. And, look.” He pushes up his sleeve to reveal the scars on his forearm. “He was afraid too.”

Yuri touches the scars with cold fingertips, then suddenly smiles. “Mяу,” he says softly.

“A cat,” Otabek realises from the sound. “Yes. Lynxes are cats.”

Yuri loosens the neck of his borrowed coat and manages to make enough space to show similar scars on his shoulder, only on a smaller scale, but undoubtedly also made by a feline of some description. He curls his fingers into claws and makes motions over Otabek’s arm, then over his own shoulder, making a comparison.

“So you had a cat too. A small one?” He points at his scars and then holds his hands apart to indicate the size of a lynx. Next, he gestures at Yuri and makes the distance between his hands less, to describe a smaller animal.

Yuri releases a short laugh, nodding, then starts to explain something, gesturing like he was carrying something. Otabek watches more than listens, fascinated by the story despite not understanding the words. But he understands the expressions Yuri makes, making it obvious he’s talking about something that makes him happy. While Otabek is still caught in staring, Yuri touches Otabek’s ear, stroking the short hair of the side of his head.

“Бека,” Yuri says, serious again, but less sad. He adds something that carries the undeniable tone of the words _good boy_.

When Yuri takes his hand away, Otabek’s ear burns despite Yuri’s touch having been cold. Otabek touches his own ear, still staring, now foolishly, at Yuri. _Did my touch feel like this?_ _Is that why you were so surprised?_ Otabek’s heart has sped up, and despite the slow, misty rain, his cheeks bloom with heat. He’d hugged Yuri to his chest the day before, ridden with Yuri practically in his lap, but this voluntarily initiated caress goes beyond that.

“Бека,” Yuri repeats, this time touching Otabek’s chest, then his own. “Юра.”

“Yes, Yuri,” Otabek echoes the name which he thinks he’s hearing past his heartbeat in his ears, but Yuri’s face changes immediately into one of frustration.

“ _Юра_ ,” he insists.

“Yu-ra?” Otabek tries again. Yuri nods and smiles, flashing his teeth. His canine teeth are long, but not as long as a cat’s.

“You want me to call you Yura? Is that-” It must be significant in some way, but the meaning escapes Otabek. Maybe a pet name. It’s only very slightly different than the name he’d given Otabek first.

Otabek turns his face into the rain for a bit, cooling down. The cold is uncomfortable enough to chase his desires away. “Yura,” he says, earning an approving look from Yuri. “How old are you?” Otabek grabs a small, pointy stone and draws 18 marks in the dirt, crossing off each four with the fifth. “This is me. I’m eighteen.” He holds out the stone for Yuri who takes it, looking at him now with a puzzled face.

“Do you know how to count, Yura?” Otabek asks, of course to no reply. He points at the lines he’d drawn, holding up a finger for each. “One, two, three...” He’d learned to count the horses in the herd, the days of a moon, a year, the length of a mare’s pregnancy, the time to travel from pasture to pasture and when to turn back to reach the winter pastures in time.

“да!” Yuri says in realisation. But what he draws is only one line, then another curved line. “Мне шестнадцать,” he says confidently, which doesn’t help at all.

“I don’t know what that means.” Otabek shakes his head, pointing at the squiggles Yuri has drawn.

Yuri frowns, then copies what Otabek had done. He draws almost as many lines as Otabek, then repeats them with his fingers, first ten, then six.

“Sixteen,” Otabek counts the fingers by touching them and then folding Yuri’s hands into his, wanting to warm them. “You’re so small I thought you were younger,” he admits. “But… I’m glad you’re small,” he adds quietly. “It’s easier to ride with you.”

“Let’s go. It’s too cold to sit any longer,” Otabek decides. Burdock pulls her head up and nickers softly, blowing a stream of warm air from her nostrils. Otabek strokes her nose and ears. “Good girl, Burr.”

“Бurr,” Yuri repeats quietly, moving from foot to foot to gain warmth. “Бека. Сix-тeen.”

“Do you want to ride?” Otabek asks and feels sorry when Yuri shakes his head at his gesture at the horse. “I think I wanted to pick you up,” Otabek confesses. “Maybe later, then.”

Towards the evening, they ride together, with Yuri securely in front of Otabek, even nestled under the sides of his coat for warmth. The rain passes but the clouds don’t, and the temperature drops steadily along with the sun. They ride closer to the family when the light begins to fade, but not quite with them. Close enough to be seen and caught up to.

“Doesn’t he know how to ride?” Ulyrau asks, riding beside them for a little while.

“I think he does,” Otabek says.

“Then why is he doing that?” Ulyrau continues.

Yuri has gone stiff, but stares ahead as though pretending nothing else exists.

“He doesn’t have a horse of his own yet,” Otabek says. Boys are given horses by their mothers when they’re born and sometimes learn to ride sooner than to walk. The girls tend to ride far less, despite the opportunity to do so and although they are the ones who end up owning most of the horses, usually as dowries.

“Is your mother giving him one?” Ulyrau keeps going.

“I don’t know,” Otabek says despite Eyinzhu’s earlier promise. She has been quite unhappy with the both of them the whole day, and Otabek can’t take one of her horses without permission. The men of the family own the routes and pastures while the women own the livestock and the carts, leaving both with one side of the coin.

“He’s so weird-looking,” Ulyrau says. He’s young and doesn’t mean any ill. Otabek is surprised he hasn’t come to sate his curiosity sooner. Janibek has only scowled at Otabek in passing. “I don’t know anybody else who looks like that.”

“We aren’t the only people in the world,” Otabek says.

“But I like the way he looks,” Ulyrau continues without a care. “His eyes have a different shape. His nose is so pointy!” He laughs and tries his own nose, flatter to his face like everyone’s in their family.

“I like the way he looks too,” Otabek says quietly.

Ulyrau hesitates. “Everyone says he’s a cat.”

“He’s not a cat.” Otabek shifts his seat slightly, squeezing around Yuri with one arm to keep him from toppling over. He likes doing it. He’s done it more than necessary all day, but either Yuri hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. “Everyone must be mistaken.”

“Could he be the lynx cub you rescued before?”

“Animals don’t turn into humans,” Otabek says. Yuri has relaxed too, finding that Ulyrau is no threat.

“But witch-men turn into animals,” Ulyrau points out. “It’s in all the stories.”

As charming as Otabek finds the idea of the lynx cub coming back as a human, he doesn’t want to let his younger siblings and cousins believe that kind of nonsense. “Why would that cub come back?” he asks. “Wouldn’t he be better off as a lynx? And why would he not know what language I speak?”

“Lynxes don’t know human languages.” Ulyrau is encouraged just by Otabek actually discussing the matter. “So he could’ve picked the wrong one by accident.”

Otabek wishes he could tell Yuri what they’re discussing because he finds it amusing. Maybe Yuri would too. “I think he’s just a Muscovite who got lost,” Otabek says, glancing down at the hay blonde hair of the boy sitting in front of him. Not the ripe golden hay of autumn, but the frozen ashen hay of spring before the season of new growth.

“I think he’s the lynx,” Ulyrau says with utter determination, but he turns his horse and canters down the line to leave the conversation at that. His and Sarnai’s harmless curiosity towards Yuri is almost charming. Janibek and Pinar’s outright distaste is not.

“Yura? Did you hear? You’re the lynx,” Otabek murmurs. Yuri makes an inquisitive sound and cranes his neck to eye Otabek. “I wish you were, because maybe then you’d want to stay,” Otabek says. He can admit these things to Yuri, quietly, just between them, because Yuri doesn’t understand a word.

“But you have to go home, don’t you?” Otabek muses. “And we’re taking you the wrong way.” He’s gathered enough from Yuri’s repeated attempts at explanation that Yuri is upset they are heading in a south-easterly direction. Twice Yuri had pointed out the North Star when it rose over the horizon, and glared expectantly at Otabek, waiting for him to do something about it.

Otabek’s conflicted interests keep him company for the rest of the evening. Yuri eats everything he’s given in an instant and huddles up in his bedroll, shivering, like every night. Otabek holds himself back from caressing Yuri’s ear or stroking his nose, or from speaking to him too much. It’s not, after all, the same feeling he had with the lynx cub.


	6. Chapter 6

They arrive at the Three Sisters before noon a few days later. The three massive boulders, struck off from the walls of the river canyon, had been carried down to the steppe by flood waters. The river has carved its way through bedrock to create a road for itself, and once free from that constraint, it spreads into a wide, meandering lagoon, doubling back on itself.

Hardy shrubs grow by the river, and grasses blanket the ground, green and yellow. The walls of the canyon are tan and brown, so deeply coloured at points that they look purple in the shadows. The smells of smoke, livestock, river mud, and grass fields mix into an earthy aroma that rises in a warm wave against the family as they crest the last hill to get into the vast bowl of the river’s floodplain. The rushing of the canyon-constrained water is almost indistinguishable from the susurrus of the people already camped at the site.

The sun sends finger-like rays to touch the ground from around the edges of the clouds that crowd the sky for the second day in a row. The small breaks in the sky cover are temporary at best, with new, darker clouds hovering in the horizon to the south.

As they descend onto the plain, throws his leg over Burdock’s neck to unmount. He groans and stretches, keeping up with the horse by walking briskly. He points at the boulders, the river, the sky, the livestock they pass by, and exclaims at each one, and Otabek can only watch him, filled to the brim with curiosity and the creeping edge of attachment. After a while, Yuri goes quiet and looks up at him expectantly.

“We call it the Three Sisters,” Otabek says, not having any way of knowing what Yuri had told him. “We break here every year. Not always in the spring because of the flooding, but always in the autumn. It’s a good place for it. The area is fertile. From here it’s not that long until we reach Seven Rivers.”

He stands up in the stirrups, shading his eyes against the errant sunshafts. “We continue south-east from here.” He points out the direction. “We have to move away from the river here, so we also have to stock up before we go. There are water holes on the way, but many of them can be dry at this time. “Seven Rivers is where we winter. It’s both the name for the region and the trade town that’s on the edge of the lake. Our winter pastures aren’t far from the town, maybe a day’s ride. A part of the lake freezes during the winter, and sometimes we go ice fishing. When it gets cold, we spend a lot of time indoors. There’s competitions, poetry, music, games...”

“Семиречье!” Yuri says as if he’d realised something. He repeats the word until it dawns on Otabek he’s saying the name of their wintering place, but in a way that makes it almost unintelligible to Otabek’s ears.

“Yes, Seven Rivers,” Otabek says, looking down at Yuri who bounces with excitement. “Do you know the place?”

“да! да!” Yuri claps his hands together. “Семиречье!” He speaks even faster, if possible, eyes alight, explaining something, which is clearly important, with words that mean absolutely nothing to Otabek, except the name of Seven Rivers coming up again and again.

It makes sense when Otabek puts his mind to it. Muscovite traders are known to come as far south as Seven Rivers, although often only to pass through or to meet traders from the East. Otabek wonders if it’s where Yuri’s caravan had been coming from, considering they’d been heading north when they’d been attacked. It’s the mystery of Yuri that Otabek wishes to uncover.

Otabek unmounts as well and walks beside Yuri the rest of the way. The situation at the Three Sisters changes every year as people stop over. Two other family groups are already at the lush site as Altynbek leads them in. Otabek and Yuri have come in close enough to see the various headmen greeting each other and discuss where to set up camp for the newcomers.

When a suitable arrangement is agreed on, Altynbek leads his people into the crook of one of the river’s bends and asks them to decide whether to pitch their more substantial yurts or use their travelling lean-tos. Eyinzhu decides on behalf of her and her remaining son to put up the yurt, and for that Otabek is grateful, both for his own and Yuri’s sake.

After taking care of the horses and helping to set up the yurt, he takes Yuri around to gather some firewood, both wanting to look around the landscape which changes every year and to have a good pile of fuel. Otabek doesn’t mind washing in the river, not until it’s frozen solid, but to give Yuri a proper opportunity to wash, he wants to heat up water.

“Семиречье?” Yuri asks, gesturing at their surroundings. They’re on the floodplain, pulling apart driftwood.

“No,” Otabek says and shakes his head for emphasis. “We’re not there yet.”

What’s left of the sun is receding, and more clouds have hurried in to take away the last warmth of the late-autumn day. Yuri takes out his disappointment by kicking at a driftwood log.

“I really want to know more too,” Otabek says, adjusting the straps of his gathering basket. “I wish you could tell me everything.” He catches Yuri’s eye, hoping for a glimmer of understanding. Yuri frowns and nods, more to acknowledge that Otabek had spoken than anything else.

Yuri looks wary when the laughter of children carries over to them, but this time they’re not interested in him. A group of them are heading into the canyon, and Otabek smiles to himself.

“Yuri. Yura?” he says, beckoning Yuri closer by curling his fingers towards his palm. “Let’s drop off the firewood. I want to show you something.”

Yuri says his what-noise, but since there’s no immediate danger of having the children gawking at him again, he follows it with his yes-noise. The lynx cub had been adorable after it’d stopped being afraid; Yuri is the same, but he evokes a whole other kind of feeling in Otabek.

They trudge back up to the campsite and Otabek arranges the firewood according to size. Eyinzhu is sorting their clothes and other belongings, spreading everything out to dry out. The tightly packed hide and clothwear tends to mildew if not properly kept. She has unfolded the large hide pot used to heat water and boil meat and set it over a swiftly but expertly crafted campfire, and she has already emptied their waterskins into it so Otabek passes the skins to Yuri, gesturing towards the river.

“Water,” he says and mimes pouring them into the hide bowl. Yuri nods and trots off while Otabek stays behind to help his mother.

“Your father promised to ask about the Muscovites from the other headmen here,” Eyinzhu says.

“That’s good.” Otabek sizes up his clothes. “These will fit him, I think.” He sniffs the rough-hewn warm things to make sure there’s no mould. They’d been washed and cared for, and were usually what he wore to camp, especially if they are around other families.

“Karakhergit is here with his family,” Eyinzhu mentions the name of their fellow herdsman casually. “You should wear those yourself. He has four daughters with good dowries. You could take one or two. Sisters like to marry in the same family, you know.”

“I’m going to take Yura up to the Echoing Ridge while the water is heating.” Otabek ignores her words as much as she had ignored his.

“Do you want me to launder his clothes, as well?” she asks.

“No, I’ll do it,” Otabek says. “Mom, I don’t want to marry yet.”

“How are you going to have a herd without dowries from your wives?” She shakes out the felted woollen curtain she uses to separate her sleeping area from the rest of the yurt.

“Who are you going to leave yours with no daughters?” Otabek counters.

“To the daughters of my sons!” she says just as Yuri comes back in, out of breath and with a bulging waterskin on either shoulder. He empties them into the bowl, then makes a question-noise, holding up the skins.

“Until this is full,” Otabek says, showing the level of water in the bowl with his hand. Yuri looks, shrugs, and goes out again. Then Otabek helps his mother hang up the curtain because she’s too short. Kireybek is his oldest brother and also Altynbek’s firstborn. After the headman and his brother, Kireybek is the next one in charge and the one who will inherit the route and the pastures. He already has a wife and a child, and another on the way.

“I worry for you, my light,” Eyinzhu says in a conciliatory tone.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Otabek reassures her. He has never thought about marrying, but he doesn’t have a reason to tell his mother. Not everybody marries but most do. Most people want to, and marriage brings the pastures and the livestock together, which gives their way of life its ability to continue. But there are traders and other tradesmen too. Metalsmiths and silversmiths, fishermen, even some farmers who live year-round in Seven Rivers. There are people who live different lives, in every sense of the word.

Eyinzhu falls silent as Otabek unrolls his and Yuri’s bedrolls, placing them side by side for the sake of space. When Yuri comes back, it takes only one waterskin to fill the bowl the rest of the way. They have a drink from the other one, and Otabek grabs some dried apples and meat for them to chew on as he bids Yuri to follow.

Getting to Echoing Ridge means skirting the edge of the camp and going in view of the other camps. The wind blows at Yuri’s hair, making it fly around like a pale flame. People from the other camps stop to look. Yuri either doesn’t notice or pretends he doesn’t.

“I think you’re brave,” Otabek tells him as they get to where the land begins to rise, eventually becoming one wall of the canyon. Yuri glances at him, but doesn’t react otherwise.

When they get up to the ridge, some of the children are still there. Otabek doesn’t recognise all of them, because they’re from the other camps, but Ulyrau is there too, with his little sister, Aigerim. They all go quiet, making the echoes die down too as they see Yuri. Yuri stops briefly, but then snaps his chin up and walks into the middle of them.

Otabek doesn’t remember when was the last time he was up at Echoing Ridge. There’s just a time when children stop coming up there to make noise at the echo. But Otabek wants Yuri to experience it. The view is beautiful too, although a little bit subdued under the low-hanging clouds. The canyon walls are striated with bands of various shades of brown and orange and purple. The land across is quite flat, still tinged with green at this time of the year, and in the distance are blue mountains, barely visible in the haze of the oncoming bad weather.

The children giggle and whisper among themselves, and Otabek holds his finger up to his lips. They go quiet again, and Otabek inhales, then sings a verse into the canyon. The ridge returns his voice, distorted and unclear, echoing until it’s nothing. It breaks the spell, and the children laugh again.

“Echo!” Ulyrau calls in after Otabek, and the children follow suit, either using the same word or repeating nonsense syllables.

Yuri listens, turning his head this way and that to follow the echoes. He nudges Otabek and points at himself, then towards the canyon. Otabek nods. It is a place of spirits, but of playful spirits who enjoy playing with children. Anyone is welcome to join in.

Yuri walks to the edge of the ridge and takes a deep breath. He tilts his head back and begins to sing. He had sung while riding with Otabek, but quietly, to himself. Now he throws his voice with such force that the group of children fall silent out of surprise. The echo sings back, and Otabek is spellbound.

Not only are the words unfamiliar but the melody is too. It’s an otherworldly song, and Yuri’s voice is clear and strong. It isn’t a child’s voice, but not one of a full-grown man either. It’s caught somewhere between, in the spot that is often awkward, but which for Yuri is as extraordinary as the rest of him.

Otabek and the children are silent through Yuri’s song. When Yuri stops, the echoes come back, repeating the last refrain until it too fades away. A slow, cold shiver works up Otabek’s spine, and he can’t take his eyes off Yuri who seems to glow.

“Snow!” Ulyrau gasps. “He called the snow!”

The children, and Otabek along with them, all tilt their faces up to the heavy clouds and the snow floating down from them. Two of the children are from the other camps, and they back away, whispering something about winter spirits. Ulyrau and Aigerim don’t fare much better, clutching each other’s hands.

“Yura,” Otabek says. Yuri turns, not looking at the children who are now as wary as he is.

“Otabek’s tamed it!” Ulyrau says. “I knew he was a shapeshifter!”

“I haven’t- He’s not-” Otabek starts, but as Yuri follows his gaze, the children scatter with a shriek, sprinting down the side of the ridge into the thickening snowfall. Only Ulyrau stays behind a moment.

“I told you so,” he says, then runs down too.

Yuri holds out his hands and looks up at the sky, closing his eyes to enjoy the snow. He seems becalmed by it. Muscovites live far up north, past the evergreen taiga that marks the end of Otabek’s world. _He’s not a spirit,_ Otabek tells himself. _It’s the season for snow, and he’s from the north. He must be used to snow._

But it’s early in the season for snow. Early enough that when they walk back down to the camp, not only are people cautious of Yuri, even more so than before, but they’re worried because too much snow too early will make the rest of the trip back to their winter settlement unnecessarily arduous.

“He brought the snow.”

“We should leave him.”

“It’s Otabek’s fault.”

“I don’t like it.”

Yuri doesn’t understand the words, but he understands the tone of voice and the whispering that follows them through the camp, hunching in on himself. There are even a few visitors from the other camps, scandalised and ready to gossip.

“Бека?” Yuri says when they reach the yurt. He gestures around them, at the people and the weather, face wary, speaking his question-word.

The family has more or less finished setting up their camp, doing so with the ease of practise. The communal fire sizzles under the damp onslaught of the snow, and while the children are happy, playing with the soft, fluffy flakes, the adults are less so. Many faces bordering on unkind are turned their way, and Otabek feels a little less charitable towards Ulyrau’s insistence that Yuri is something else or more than human.

“Early snow is bad for us,” Otabek says, avoiding the subject on his mind as though it makes any difference. “Horses can forage through snow, so that’s not the problem. It just makes travel by cart a little difficult. Yura, come in.”

Otabek guides Yuri into the yurt through the south-facing door, breaking him away from the gazes of others. The portable structure is a round one, with a slightly domed roof, built on steamed and bent wood supports, with walls of felt and oiled leather to keep to both protect against rain and to insulate the inside. The inside is sectioned off with felt walls as well. Most of the floor is left as bare ground, but the sleeping areas have woollen rugs. The centre is taken by a hearth, currently in use for heating bathwater. The smoke is able to escape through the adjustable opening in the roof.

“Mom?” Otabek calls, pushing aside the heavy drape that separates her bed from the rest. Eyinzhu isn’t there, but there are signs of her having bathed and changed clothes. Yuri is already by the fire, prodding it with a stick to make it more lively. The water in the hide bowl above it bubbles and steams, filling the air with precious warmth.

“Yura,” Otabek says, taking out a washcloth and the fresh clothes. The washing bowl is a metal one, easy to scrub clean of soap residue. “You can have a bath now. Look.” He ladles water into the container and wets the cloth, rubbing the sliver of lye soap onto it to create a foam. He rolls up his sleeve and washes his forearm. Then he pretends as if to drink the water and shakes his head. “Don’t drink it or put it back into the hide bowl.” He also mimes pouring the soapy water into the big bowl, then shakes his head again.

Yuri frowns, following Otabek’s movements very closely, then his expression clears in understanding, and he nods, voicing his assertion. He begins to undress immediately, clearly looking forwards to a more thorough and pleasant bath than taking a dip in the freezing river.

Otabek also places a felt mat on the bare ground and gestures for Yuri to stand on it to save his feet from getting dirty while washing. “I’ll take your clothes to wash,” Otabek says. He’ll bathe in the river himself, despite the snow. The water isn’t frozen yet; that’s his limit. “You can put these clothes on afterwards.” He points to the folded articles of clothing, hoping Yuri understands.

Yuri hesitates with his trousers, watching as Otabek collects his blue tunic and the soft undershirt, but doesn’t protest. Otabek makes to collect his own washcloth and towel, turning his back to Yuri to give him the privacy he seems to wish for.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he says, eyes dutifully down, no matter how much he wants to look up. Nudity is nothing new, as he’s bathed and swam in rivers and lakes with his brothers and male cousins all his life. Even sex is normal. Felt walls don’t block sounds, and their livelihood depends on closely regulating the mating cycles of their livestock. But Otabek’s never felt guilty for looking at someone before. He’s never thought of sex so specifically linked to someone or so suddenly and with such immediate results. He still sneaks a look up one white leg, then drops his eyes again. He can’t do it when he can’t ask Yuri.

Yuri calls after him when he exits the yurt, but he doesn’t sound alarmed, just as if he’s asking for confirmation. “I won’t be too long, Yura,” Otabek repeats. Not looking.

Outside the snow is still falling quite thickly, making strange ghosts appear over the river that responds by releasing mist as the air above it cools. Otabek hurries to undress and forges into the frigid water with the soap and Yuri’s dirty clothes in hand. The water stings and leaves him gasping, but it also takes care of the desires of his body and mind.

But even when his body and mind are driven empty by the purity of cold water, it’s easy to believe, alone in the stream, surrounded by the snowfall and the mist, with the sounds of the camps muted by the moving water, with the memory of Yuri’s song echoing in his head and the memory of Yuri’s white skin echoing in his body, that Yuri isn’t fully human. _He didn’t sing down the snow._

But Yuri wears clothes, he gets thirsty and tired, he sleeps, he laughs and sings and is warm when sitting against Otabek on the horse. Otabek unravels his horsetail braid and dunks his head under the water again, working some soap through his hair as well. Yuri’s hair needs washing too, and he smells of sweat like any human would. He needs to eat, and likes to, ravenously so, and he needs to relieve himself. His white skin is mottled with healing bruises and scratches, like anyone’s who has suffered misuse.

The snowfall is no less when Otabek comes out of the water, shivering violently. His hands are almost too stiff to wring the wet clothes or grab the towel, and he doesn’t bother trying to dry himself. He wraps the soft hide around himself and runs to the camp, carrying everything else under his arm.

Burdock and Sweetgrass nicker softy in greeting when he comes to the yurt. “S-sorry about the snow,” Otabek tells them. The horses are hardy and used to the seasons, but it doesn’t make Otabek feel any less responsible. _Maybe I shouldn’t have let Yuri sing._

Inside the yurt, the heat tingles in Otabek’s limbs as much as the splash of water and Yuri’s low humming tingle in his ears. It takes a moment for Otabek’s eyes to adjust from the strange grey light of the snow falling during the day to the fire-lit darkness of the tent. Yuri is still washing, standing with his back towards the entrance. He upends the bowl of heated water over his head to rinse lather off his body.

“Yura,” Otabek says, voice cracking, startling Yuri into making a squeak.

Otabek dumps the wet clothes into what remains of the water in the hide bowl and stokes the fire, crouching next to Yuri. He keeps shivering hard enough for Yuri to notice and make a sound of concern.

“Бека?” he says.

“Just cold,” Otabek replies through stiff lips, rubbing his arms and legs to warm up.

Yuri makes a face and speaks at length, pointing at the bowl of warm water and then outside several times. His tone of voice leaves no room for misinterpretation about what he thinks of Otabek bathing outside, but Otabek can only stare at the fire until Yuri grabs the hide towel and wraps it around himself. At that point Otabek feels like he can at least look at Yuri’s feet now. Skinny, bony ankles and bruised toes. They’re just normal feet. He’s human, after all.

The feet move out of Otabek’s sight. Yuri moves across the yurt to the side designated for him and Otabek and partitioned off with another drape and drops onto his bedroll. He tries to pull his fingers through his matted hair, then notices Otabek staring and starts making brushing motions over his hair, accompanied by a question-noise.

“Yeah, I need it too,” Otabek says. He gets up on less shaky legs and wraps his towel around his waist before it falls. Otabek finds his pouch of toiletries and brings it over, bringing out a comb of five spikes. It’s only to get snags out of hair, which is all that Otabek has ever needed. His tail of hair is long, but there’s only a limited amount of it when the sides are shorn.

Yuri takes the comb and tries to run it through his hair, but only ends up yanking on it in impatience. He curses under his breath.

“Yura, can I?” Otabek gestures at Yuri’s hair, then holds out his hand. Yuri relinquishes the comb after a brief hesitation, and Otabek moves behind him, lifting pale strand after pale strand, untangling the fine hair carefully. Yuri’s hair is much finer than Otabek’s, and maybe that’s why it’s much more matted after a washing with the lye soap.

Yuri makes a few pained sounds, no matter how gentle Otabek tries to be, and Otabek chides himself for letting his attention slip along Yuri’s towel. His shoulders are bare and gleam like white gold in the firelight, slightly angular, but covered in such smooth, perfect skin. Only with a fading bruise along one shoulder like he’d hit the ground hard.

It’s such a trusting, vulnerable position to be in that Otabek becomes almost certain that whoever attacked the Muscovite caravan can’t have been a nomad family. Some have resorted to raiding and robbing traders after losing crops or livestock, but rarely, if ever, killed anyone. And if those attackers had looked like Otabek, Yuri wouldn’t be so easy with him.

Otabek takes the opportunity to braid Yuri’s hair again. He runs the backs of his fingers against the nape of Yuri’s neck, the bump of his spine joining his neck, but Yuri doesn’t question it. He feels the braid when it’s done and says something. Otabek shrugs and nods, not knowing what he’s being asked, but it becomes clear as Yuri takes the comb and points it at Otabek’s hair.

As Yuri moves, letting the towel go, so he can wrap it around his waist like Otabek has done, there’s a flash of white thighs, one marred with a scabbed-over wound. Otabek pulls himself around and rests his hands in his lap, glad to be able to hide his reaction by doing that. He closes his eyes and ducks his head. Yuri is pink where Otabek is tawny. His forearms are ringed with bruises that Otabek hadn’t noticed before. Had he been tied up? Or grabbed?

Yuri has a lot to say while he combs Otabek’s hair, exclaiming over its length. He doesn’t shy away from running his hands over the shaved bits, or prodding at a scar across Otabek’s back, left over from being pushed over by a panicking horse and falling on some pointy rocks. He braids Otabek’s hair deftly, but the end result doesn’t feel quite the same as when Otabek does it himself.

“Thank you,” Otabek says, feeling his hair. It doesn’t matter if it’s not the same. He’s happy to have been given that by Yuri.

Yuri smiles, maybe in response to Otabek’s approving tone of voice, then taps Otabek’s shoulder and pointing at the steaming bowl. Otabek had forgotten about the clothes, and gets up to add more wood to make the water boil. He hopes the clothes can take it. Yuri catches his attention by saying his name again and gestures to his mouth, making chewing sounds.

“You’re adorable,” Otabek says quietly. He points at the clothes. “Let’s get dressed first.” He still stops Yuri by taking his arm, causing a brief flash of alarm in him. “Yura, you didn’t call the snow, did you?”

Yuri’s eyes are narrow with confusion first, but then relax. He shakes his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on Seven Rivers, see <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zhetysu>


	7. Chapter 7

The herd, the wealth of the family, arrives late next morning. Snow blankets the floodplain in a surprising show of endurance so early in the season. Otabek takes Yuri to see the arrival of the horses. The family group and their herd seldom travel at the same speed or the same exact route, but they never stray that far from each other.

They stand midway up the ridge to see the animals. The sun is low, and casts long, blue shadows across the snowy ground, making the herd look even bigger. Yuri’s round eyes and mouth tell Otabek this is a new sight to him, and Otabek feels a little bit proud of the wealth his family commands. He’s seen the horses plenty of times and finds watching Yuri’s lively face much more interesting. Yuri goes from amazement to curiosity, then begins talking, pointing at the animals, asking questions Otabek can in no way answer but enjoys hearing anyway.

Yuri is especially taken by seeing Otyrau’s eagle again and tries to imitate it by spreading his own arms and making whooshing noises as he dashes back and forth.

“Yura,” Otabek calls out, and Yuri swoops back, making a what-noise. “Like this,” he says and gestures at his own mouth before he attempts the call of an eagle. It isn’t loud and majestic, and Yuri laughs, shaking his head, and surprising Otabek with the sound. Then he’s off again, running down the side of the ridge, and Otabek follows.

The wet, slippery snow brings them both to their knees at the bottom of the ridge and slows them to a walk after getting up. Most of the family has come to see the herd, and most importantly, the herders themselves. Otyrau, his two eldest sons, and Kireybek have been watching over the horses for the previous leg of the journey. From the Three Sisters to home, the watch is changed.

“We’ll travel with the horses when we leave here,” Otabek tells Yuri after introducing him to the ones who’d not met him before. Yuri had half hidden behind him, although not out of fear, more guarded. For that reason, Otabek has brought him away as quickly as possible. And he’s happy to show off the horses.

The animals are already grazing, pushing away snow with their hooves and noses, and pay them little heed. Otabek can tell the horses owned by the various wives apart by the styles in which their tails and sometimes manes are in. Some of them have loose embroidered halters on, or designs cut into their flanks as well.

Yuri what-noises, pointing at the animals, and since Otabek knows he can’t be asking _what_ a horse is, he takes it a different way. “Horse,” Otabek says, indicating a single animal. “A herd of horses.” He makes a circular motion to encompass them all.

“Khorse,” Yuri repeats slowly. He gives the word a more guttural first syllable, and Otabek finds his concentrated expression rather winsome.

“Yes, and mom agreed to lend you one,” Otabek continues. They’re her property. Even he’s technically borrowing his mount from her. In the future, he’s supposed to have the support of his wife in this matter. “Do you own horses?” he asks, although the only response is Yuri looking suspicious.

“Khorses,” Yuri says.

“Come on, Yura.” Otabek bids him to follow with a gesture, weaving between the animals. They can still get skittish, and many of them aren’t even taught to be ridden or to pull the carts, remaining almost wild. “My mom’s horses have blue and yellow ribbons woven in their tails, or they have this bear pattern on them.” He pats an old, familiar mare who has successfully foaled every year and provides them with a lot of milk. She has the halter of a milk-mare as well.

“Что?” Yuri says, pointing at the bear.

“Bear,” Otabek says.

“Бear,” Yuri repeats seriously and then holds up his hands like paws and growls. “Медведь!”

“Med... ved?” Otabek feels out the word. It seems only fair for him to try out some of Yuri’s words too.

“да!” Yuri nods, accepting Otabek’s lacking rendition of the word.

“Bear is my mom’s family symbol,” Otabek continues as he surveys the horses. Eyinzhu had specified the horse she was allowing Yuri to borrow, a sweet old gelding they called, fittingly, Snow Cloud because of his colour. “She’s from the north, but not as far north as you. Bears must be more common there.”

“Лошадь,” Yuri says, pointing at the old mare. “Khorsh.”

“Loshad..?” Otabek repeats, and Yuri nods. It seems to satisfy his need to communicate for the moment, while Otabek contemplates life in the north. He’s heard that there’s flatlands beyond the evergreen forest too. The thought of a forest itself fills him with apprehension; in his mind it’s dark and foreboding and closes on at every side. He likes seeing the horizon.

“I wonder if you live in the forest,” Otabek says quietly. “Or beyond it. Is there a place like Seven Rivers there?”

Yuri merely looks at him at the mention of the familiar place-name, then his attention goes back to the horses. He doesn’t quite shy away from the animals, but he’s wary around them, clearly unaccustomed to so many. Or maybe it’s their freedom that surprises him.

“I’ve heard you put horses in houses,” Otabek continues as they walk through the pasture, looking for Snow Cloud. “In little boxes, instead of letting them be free like they should. Then again, I also know there’s people who don’t go from place to place every year. People who fish year-round or grow crops. We have some too, but not so many. They sometimes build shelters for goats or sheep.”

Otabek has probably never spoken so much in such a short time as he’s done with Yuri. But he’s curious, and Yuri seems to respond to his words despite not understanding them. He only wishes Yuri tell him everything he wants to know. All about the fine cloth of his outfit, the distant place he’s from, why and who killed the other people of his caravan, whether or not he’s a winter spirit. He’s pale, but he’s not white, like the stories say such spirits are. White and sparkly and gone if touched by fire; Yuri just grows more golden in firelight.

“But you sang and the snow came,” Otabek mutters. Yuri smiles at him.

They climb a small hill, finding more horses on the other side, and some distance away, riders keeping watch over the livestock. The grassland stretches away towards the sky, and although it’s autumn and the undulating grasses are mostly gone, there is still some eye-deceiving movement across the land. Yuri stops to look, sighing and speaking. His words are tinged with sadness. He looks up too, trying to locate the sun, but the clouds had never left, cloaking the distances with grey veils. Yuri hugs himself.

“I wish I could help,” Otabek says. The sight doesn’t make him sad. He likes it. It’s home. Yuri leans his shoulder against Otabek’s for a moment, then makes a motion with his arms, breathing in a measured _hah_ and _woosh_. He does it for a while, looking at Otabek expectantly, until something about it clicks.

“Water!” Otabek exclaims. Seven Rivers, as its name indicates, is a region of rivers that flow into a lake, and Otabek has watched the water wash ashore, making that same sound and motion. But he can’t explain his realisation in any tangible way, except by nodding that he understands the concept, if not the full idea, of what Yuri is trying to communicate or what has made him sad.

On their way down the hill, Yuri is caught up in watching the foals. The youngest are only a month or two old, and still tiny, spindly-legged creatures that everyone loves. Including Yuri. He laughs at them running up and down, with their little tails straight, and almost gets trampled by a protective mare when he tries to pet one.

“You have to bribe them,” Otabek tells him after Yuri complains some, looking pouty. “They like apples. I’ll show you later.”

Yuri still grumbles when they locate Snow Cloud, and Otabek leads both the horse and his ward back towards camp. At the yurt, Otabek digs out some dried apples and shows Yuri how to offer them to the horse. A man without a horse is worse off than a man without a leg in the plains, and they still have distance to cover. And to be able to perform his duties as he should, Otabek can’t have a passenger, no matter how much he’d—selfishly—enjoyed having Yuri pressed either behind him or on front of him for the past few days.

Yuri questions the apples, but seems happy when Snow Cloud presses his soft nose in his hand to look for more.

“He’s for you to ride,” Otabek says. “I ride my horse, and now you have yours.” He points at himself and his horse, then at Yuri and Snow Cloud. Yuri just holds out his hand for more apples, so Otabek fetches some, along with the halter and saddle for Yuri to practise putting them on.

He shows how to dress the horse, making sure Yuri pays attention, then makes him try it. Taking care of horses is a natural state for Otabek and his kin, but he doesn’t know if Muscovites feel the same way. Yuri talks a little, questioning the process and probably its necessity, but when he rolls his eyes and drops his hands, Otabek picks them back up and makes him tighten the saddle properly. Then he gestures for Yuri to mount the horse.

That seems to drive the purpose of the new horse home. Yuri makes a long noise of understanding, and even though he’s shorter than Otabek, he jumps easily onto the horse after a few tries. The steppe horses aren’t as tall as the horses some traders that come to Seven Rivers have, but a jump is still needed. Otabek pats Snow Cloud and keeps him calm while he gets used to his new rider, but the horse is placid and not so young anymore, and he’s been ridden enough to not try and throw Yuri off.

“So you _can_ ride,” Otabek says when Yuri brings the horse back, beaming.

Yuri what-noises him and slides off the horse.

“Nothing,” Otabek says as though Yuri had actually understood him. “I’ll show you how to take care of him and the saddle.”

Otabek teaches Yuri the horse’s name and also names the various parts of a horse and the riding gear. He shows through example how to care for the animal, to rub him down and curry his coat, although he’s already helped Otabek with those tasks before. When he’s helping Yuri braid Snow Cloud’s tail, Sarnai runs up.

“He’s doing it wrong!” she says loudly and grabs Yuri’s sleeve to pull his hands away. “Beka!”

“I know, I know,” Otabek says and picks her up to keep her from being trampled. “Go on, Yura.”

“Beka!” Sarnai complains, kicking her chubby feet to get back down. “Doesn’t he know how to do it?”

Yuri has all but stopped despite Otabek’s gesture for him to continue, eyeing the child suspiciously. Otabek tries to calm his squirmy half-sister. The other children haven’t wanted to approach since the time Yuri had been angered.

“Not everyone knows,” he says. “Let him practise.”

“But he’s a cat!” Sarnai objects. “Why does he need a horse? Can’t he run?”

“No, he can’t. He’s not a cat.”

“Why’s he wearing your clothes, Beka?” she asks.

“Because he doesn’t have any of his own,” Otabek replies patiently. “It’s getting cold, don’t you think? Yura needed better clothes so I gave him what I could. Wouldn’t you do that if someone you knew was cold?”

“Oh, I guess,” she says, sticking her finger in her mouth to suckle on. Yuri has moved to the other side of the horse and is almost completely hidden by it. Only the top of his head is visible.

“Where’s your mother?” Otabek asks. The children are free to roam because everyone keeps an eye on them, and while Otabek occasionally enjoys the company of his younger siblings and cousins, he has other things on his mind right now.

“Dunno,” Sarnai mumbles and puts her head on his shoulder.

“Yura,” Otabek calls, and Yuri’s eyes peek over the horse’s back, questioning. “I’ll take Sarnai back to her mother.”

Yuri’s reply is something impolite, which Otabek gathers from the tone of voice. He points at Sarnai and then gestures at the camp, hoping it explains what he is about to do. Yuri also gestures at Sarnai, but afterwards he gestures at Otabek instead and makes question noises.

“She’s my little sister,” he says, nodding because he doesn’t know what Yuri is asking. “I’ll be right back, Yura,” he says softly, then carries Sarnai towards Dilraba’s red and yellow yurt.

She’s out by it, tending to a small fire, and as Otabek comes around the structure, he finds his father sitting by the front of her yurt as well. He spends most of his time with her because she doesn’t have grown sons to help her. Sarnai squirms out of his arms and runs to Altynbek.

“Daddy!” she cries, and he opens his arms to her, scooping her up.

“There’s my littlest one,” he says. “And Otabek. Come sit.”

“I...” Otabek hesitates, but then goes. His father is a family man, first and foremost, and has always made great effort in getting to know all his children and raising them. “How are we doing?” he asks. Dilraba gives him a warm cup of tea and a smile, then moves to arranging reeds that she’s split and soaked in the river to make them flexible enough for weaving.

“As long as it doesn’t snow much more, we’ll be fine,” Altynbek says, then makes horse-cantering noises for Sarnai who rides on his knees.

“I thought so too,” Otabek says, sipping the tea and thinking of Yuri.

“I assume the rumour that the Muscovite boy sang to bring the snow is false?” Altynbek laughs a little, probably at Sarnai’s giggles. Altynbek’s face is deeply carved with lines borne from living a life outside and the harsh sun of the steppes. But almost all the lines follow his smile.

“He sang, but I don’t think that brought the snow. It was going to snow anyway,” Otabek mutters, slightly ashamed. Despite him not thinking that Yuri could be dangerous, he should still put his family first and not let Yuri do anything out of the ordinary. This is the second time already he’s overlooked the good of the many for his selfish interest in an outsider.

“Men can’t affect the weather or the run of the seasons, no matter how much we wish it,” Altynbek says. “No harm done. I spoke with Karakhergit and Batak about the caravan. Batak told me they’d heard of Muscovites visiting Seven Rivers this season and that there’d been some sort of an altercation with other Rus tradesmen, but nothing about a caravan being attacked.”

“Have they heard of anyone being taken prisoner?” Otabek asks, thinking of the fading bruises on Yuri’s arms.

“Is that what you think happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hopefully the Elderman is still alive,” Altynbek says. Sarnai cuddles under his arm, and Otabek thinks of Yuri, cuddling against his front. “And remembers the language.”

Otabek looks into his tea, then drains the cup. “I’ll go back. He’s alone.”

“First he’s a cat, now a snow spirit,” Altynbek sighs. “If I’d known...”

“You’d have left him to die?” Otabek says, getting up.

“Of course not,” Altynbek says. “But I might have asked you to be more careful. I made him your responsibility, but not so that you’d get hurt first.”

“I- I’m fine, dad.” Otabek rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed but pleased. “Yura’s not dangerous, I don’t think. It’s just that he’s... different.”

“Isn’t that the worst danger of all? My father didn’t want me to marry Pinar, you know. We’ve always married to the north and the east, not the south. She even rode a camel in our wedding procession. She says riding a horse makes her nauseated.”

“Oh, don’t we all know it,” Dilraba pipes in. She’s from a true and tested family of herders from the north-eastern plains. She wears her hair in two buns of plaits on the sides of her head, with silver hairpins holding them together. “She thinks we’re barbarians.”

“Well, my darling, you are,” Altynbek says, and she laughs. Sarnai squirms out of his lap and goes to watch her mother weave. “The other headmen and I have agreed we’ll hold a feast tomorrow evening. We’ll form two groups for goat-pulling, and set up targets for an archery competition.”

“Can I join?” Otabek asks. “Even though I have a responsibility.”

“I’d prefer it if you did.” Altynbek makes a shooing motion. “Go on. I heard Eyinzhu agreed to lend him a horse. I hope he knows how to care for it.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Otabek promises. He already doesn’t want to go back to Seven Rivers. He doesn’t want to find out where Yuri is from or where he is going because then he’ll have to help Yuri leave.

Alarmed by this thought, Otabek returns to his mother’s yurt, watching Yuri feed more apples to all three horses, smiling at them like they share a secret. Otabek doesn’t announce his presence, but goes to the banked fire inside the yurt. His cup of tea had reminded him that Yuri would probably like something to eat and drink too.

“Бека,” Yuri says when he notices him and comes away from the horses. He continues talking, gesturing at the animals, then at Otabek, then the wide-open grasslands around them. He makes the sound of cantering hooves with his hands, clapping them together, then waits for Otabek’s response.

“You want to go riding?” Otabek guesses as he works the fire back up to a flame and puts the kettle on. “Let’s eat, then go.” He mimes eating, and Yuri nods several times in agreement. He repeats his cantering clap again, making his question noise afterwards.

“We’ll go,” Otabek says, and Yuri’s smile gets bigger if possible. “I guess you like having your own horse,” Otabek continues because Yuri always seems to listen. “I wonder if you liked riding with me. I liked it. I probably shouldn’t. I’ve not ridden with anyone since I was little. Not even that much then. I guess I knew how to ride almost before I knew how to run.” Otabek picks up the wooden cups with handles for the tea, and some of the horse meat sausage to quickly heat up on the fire.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning brings noises of excitement and preparation. There’s only a sliver of time when Otabek isn’t required to do anything or be anything, and that’s just after he’s woken up. Nobody knows he’s awake, so he’s free. Ordinarily it’s only a brief, fleeting moment that’s superseded by his responsibilities almost as soon as it begins, but when they’re camped like this, or when it’s winter, the moment becomes longer. Long enough for Otabek’s mind to start travelling.

There is little light inside the sleeping alcove when the drape isn’t pushed aside, but some seeps in through the gap at the top, where the curtain doesn’t meet the domed ceiling. It’s enough to let Otabek see Yuri’s sleeping face, turned towards him. He strokes the length of Yuri’s nose, agreeing with Ulyrau that it really is quite pointy. _Delicate_ , he thinks. _Tiny_. _Lovely_.

He puts the back of his finger against Yuri’s lips, feeling how chapped they are, but also the warm exhalations from his nose. _Human_. _Not a spirit. Not even a lynx shapeshifted_.

Yuri pushes Otabek’s hand away, wrinkling his nose, and buries himself under the fur-lined top of the bedroll, this time leaving only the tuft at the end of his braid and one cloth-covered shoulder left visible. He’d taken to wearing the soft, shiny undershirt again once it’d been washed, but not the blue overclothes because, despite their finery, they are too light for the weather.

Because it’s still morning, and Otabek has just woken up, and nobody knows that he’s awake, he leans forwards and presses his cheek against the soft shoulder, feeling the cloth and the warmth that suffuses it, and smells the scent of the person wearing it. Because right now he has no responsibilities towards anyone, he lets himself feel the pull of another person’s body.

But it only lasts until Eyinzhu walks back into the yurt. “Are you up? You should be up,” she calls out. “Come carry the big metal pot and get the boy run water for us.”

When Otabek looks again, Yuri’s eyes are open, regarding him steadily. “All right, mom,” Otabek says, making sure to turn away from Yuri as he gets up and dresses. “Is this for the feast?”

“Yes, we’re all pitching in.” Eyinzhu glances at him when he pulls the drape aside. “Since the others are sheep herders, a horsemeat stew will be a change for them. Oh, and put away your beds.”

After helping around and having breakfast, Otabek volunteers them to go watch the herd. Not because feast preparations aren’t exciting, but because he doesn’t wish people to gawk at Yuri all day. Even if Yuri can’t understand the whispers, he still hears them, and sees the people looking at him. Otabek takes the opportunity to teach Yuri more about the horses, as much as he can, with the barrier of no shared language and no knowledge of how much Yuri really knows.

The snow has almost completely melted, leaving wet ground exposed. While Otabek checks on some of the foals, Yuri is busy with a stick in the wet sand. He calls Otabek over by saying his name and gesturing with his hand. He points his palm upwards and curls his fingers towards himself, which Otabek finds curious. His beckoning gesture is done with the palm downwards.

“What are you doing?” Otabek asks, noticing the scribbles in the wet sand.

Yuri brings him to a specific one, a small drawing of a wagon. Yuri points at himself, the wagon, then towards east. He uses the stick in hand to draw a line to the next part, a collection of what look like yurts, with smoke coming out of them.

“You came from the east on a wagon?” Otabek guesses. “To a place with many yurts.”

Yuri pokes the yurt-drawings with the stick. “Семиречье,” he says with emphasis, staring at Otabek.

“Seven Rivers?” Otabek echoes, recognising the word. “You came to Seven Rivers from the east. You’re trying to tell me what happened to you.”

Yuri stares at him as though he’s able to understand Otabek’s words through sheer willpower. His gaze flicks from Otabek’s lips to his eyes, and he nods, drawing another line up from the yurts, to a drawing of five wagons. He points north.

“You headed north from Seven Rivers,” Otabek clarifies.

Yuri draws something else by the wagons, an ellipse with four legs and a head. He adds a wavy line for a tail and points at Otabek, then the drawing again.

“And I found you there,” Otabek says, nodding with understanding. “Is that a drawing of Burdock?”

“Бurr,” Yuri says seriously. He draws another line, a shorter one, going south-east from the wagons, then draws three vertical lines and turns to point at the formation of Three Sisters, visible everywhere on the floodplain. “Бека?” he questions, offering him the stick.

“And we brought you here…” Otabek takes the stick. “Do you want me to show you where we’ll go from here?”

“Бека,” Yuri repeats, pointing at the stick, then the drawings.

Otabek picks up where Yuri had left off and pulls the stick through the wet sand to create a line, more or less towards south from the mark indicating the Three Sisters. It ends up a little to the east of the yurts of Seven Rivers, where he draws similar yurts and more horses in the same style as Yuri. “This is where we’re going. It’s near the town of Seven Rivers, about a day’s ride.”

Yuri measures the scribbles they’ve completed with his gaze, then walks towards north-west on their makeshift map. Although Otabek has no concept of the scale, other than the days it takes to travel between pastures, Yuri still ends up quiet far away. He scuffs the earth with his boot, making a cross-mark, then point at himself, the mark, and says a name. Or what Otabek assumes is a name. The name of the place where Yuri wants to go, far, far away from where they are now.

“Is that… home?” Otabek asks.

The corners of Yuri’s mouth are down. He repeats his words, pointing at the mark and himself again.

“I don’t know how to get you there,” Otabek says, shaking his head.

Yuri inhales as if to repeat the words once more, but then sighs and scrubs the mark away with a sweep of his foot. He comes back to Otabek, his step slightly heavier than before and his mouth a resolute line. He shrugs when he gets close and cups his hand around Otabek’s ear, saying the words that sound like _good boy_.

“So that’s what it looks like.” Janibek’s voice always has an edge; today it comes with an accompanying sneer. He’s on his horse, one that is similarly dark and wild-tempered, watching them. “Being ensorcelled.”

“What do you want?” Otabek faces his brother.

“Dad said you might do both goat-pulling and archery,” Janibek says, looking over them at the herd. “That’s stupid. You’ll tire out your horse.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

Janibek scowls, and his horse treads around in a circle, taking on his tension. “Drop out of goat-pulling. I heard it’s only going to be one half, five men each team, because of the snow. It’s your fault.”

“Which part?”

“The snow! The game time being halved!” Janibek points at Yuri, who’s been wiping away the journey he’d drawn in the ground. “That thing! You didn’t have to bring it!”

“That… thing?” Otabek glances at Yuri. “You mean that human? Who has nothing to do with the snow? Because humans don’t control the weather?” But Janibek isn’t as simple as that and definitely not that stupid. “What do you really want?”

“Just drop out,” Janibek snorts. “Do the archery. You’re better at that anyway.” He yanks his horse around and rides off, the hooves of his horse spitting up clumps of wet earth as he goes.

“Did he come here just to tell me that?” Otabek murmurs at Yuri. “Being ensorcelled. Is that what they think of me now?” He asks Yuri to come with him with a toss of his head, taking him back towards where they’d left Burdock and Snow Cloud to graze with the others.

When the drums start, Yuri gasps and turns to look at him. They’re riding back towards the camp under a darkening sky, which makes the celebratory bonfires stand out more as they’re lit to match the crescendo of the drumming. Soon the sounds of three camps are overlaid with music. It brings more questions from Yuri as they ride back towards the camp.

“It’s a feast,” Otabek says, and it seems that as long as he speaks, whether Yuri understands him or not, he’s satisfied. “Do you like music? You must. Your song was beautiful.” Otabek has questions too, and no answers.

The clothes borrowed from Otabek offer enough security to Yuri remaining mostly unseen amidst everyone else. When he wears the round fur hat, and if one doesn’t look in his eyes, he looks almost like one of them. The archery competition is first, and it’s performed on the move, on horseback. Otabek tries his best to explain it to Yuri, and then leaves him in the care of his mother, who clicks her tongue, but accepts the task with a flick of her eyes that says Otabek better perform well to make it worthwhile.

The course is a set of ten targets of varying sizes, set apart with irregular spacing to test both the archer’s precision and speed. On the course, the sound of hooves striking the ground and the sound of the audience become a blur, and despite the short length of the challenge, Otabek is soaked in sweat when he finishes, arms and legs shaking from the effort, breathing almost as hard as Burdock.

The competition is over quickly, and the results, once tallied, place Otabek third out of ten. His prize is a silver clasp to adorn his coat with, which he offers to Eyinzhu.

“Save it for your first wife,” she says, but Otabek has already turned to Yuri, glad to see his eyes shining with excitement.

The game of goat-pulling is played last, but while there’s still light, and Otabek sits it out, leaving Janibek all the glory and attention for daring stunts and being able to drag the prepared, dead goat to the goal posts. It’s the most awaited event and gathers the biggest crowd. Otabek explains Yuri the rules despite Yuri not understanding his words and probably not even hearing them half the time as the audience roars and the horses and riders scream in effort.

The dead goat serves as the game object to be picked up and brought to the goal to score points. The riders seem to defy the rule of nature as they twist down sideways to grab the goat off the ground, as though something more than their muscles hold them to their horses. This game is short and brutal, and Yuri keeps grabbing Otabek’s sleeve and pointing at the field when skilled or reckless plays are performed. Janibek does well, and this time Otabek’s prize is the thrilled and vibrating Yuri, beaming up at him with his whole being when the game finishes.

“I’m starving. Are you hungry?” Otabek questions him when the audience begins to move and torches and lanterns are lit to fight the falling of the night. More music weaves through the people and dancers pass in front of the fires as dark, fluttering shapes. The smell of smoke mixes with the smell of food, each camp serving their mouth-wetting best.

With full bowls in hand, Otabek and Yuri walk through the grounds, participating by watching until they come a big, makeshift yurt with rugs and small metal stoves for warmth and hanging lanterns for light. The structure filled with people passing the time with drinking, gossip, and board games. Yuri spots one of the Nine Holes boards and pulls Otabek closer, exclaiming over the game.

“You want to play?” Otabek smiles.

“Otabek!” Kireybek is sitting in the back with a few unfamiliar faces, waving at him. “Over here.”

Not having had the opportunity to spend much time with his brother in a while, Otabek follows the invitation. The game board on the rug between the players is just being reset, and Kireybek’s previous partner stumbles away, clearly drunk.

“You did great today.” Kireybek claps Otabek on the shoulder. “Good riding, good shooting. Well done!” He grabs the top of Otabek’s head and pats him like a horse.

“Thanks,” Otabek says. He feels closest to Kireybek despite there being an almost eight-year age gap between them. “Can he play?” He pats the rug next to himself, inviting Yuri to sit. “I think he wants to.”

“Why not?” Kireybek agrees, emptying his cup of fermented milk. “I won’t say no to a chance to beat someone who scared my son. He doesn’t understand us, does he?”

“He doesn’t,” Otabek confirms. “And sorry. Suyumbek wasn’t hurt.”

“He wasn’t. I heard he was being a brat.” Kireybek laughs. “Come on, you start.” He catches Yuri’s attention and points at the board.

The game is played on a board where each player has the titular nine holes. Eight regular ones and one goal. The markers made of colourful, polished stones are dropped in each, going around the board until one player has captured all markers or runs out of them. Yuri seems adept at the game, so Otabek watches him instead of the board.

“How did you know who to marry?” Otabek asks when his brother and Yuri begin a new game.

“Has mom driven you to this point already?” Kireybek counters. “What do you mean?”

“How did you decide? How did you know you wanted to marry?”

“Aah.” Kireybek scratches his chin much like their father does when thinking. “To be honest, I didn’t think about it much until I met Beshkina. I thought she was beautiful, and then I just… wanted to marry.” He side-eyes Otabek, but Otabek turns away from the look.

“Wasn’t that just your body deciding what to do?” Otabek mutters.

“Yes, but what else would I use to decide?” Kireybek says. “My body decides everything else too. Am I tired? Hungry? Do I love my wife? My body knows.”

Yuri’s hand moves quickly over the board, dropping markers and capturing a pile from Kireybek. Yuri makes an exclamation of pleasure at his good move, dropping the markers into his goal, and Otabek is drawn to watching him again.

After Yuri has had enough of winning and they leave the yurt, they stay on the outskirts of the feast. Yuri claps his hands softly together in time with the drums as if he’s memorising the rhythm. The smell of food and people and fire mixes into a smoke trail that disappears up into the sky, becoming one with the clouds, which offer only small viewports into the stars. They eat until they can eat no more, and for a while no one pays much attention to Yuri or his supposed otherhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on goat-pulling, see <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buzkashi>  
> For more information on Nine Holes, see <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mancala>


	9. Chapter 9

For the rest of the family’s time at the Three Sisters, Otabek and Yuri ride out daily for no other reason than for the pleasure of it. For Yuri to get used to Snow Cloud for the rest of the trip to Seven Rivers, and for Otabek the shake away the remnants of not being on the move. His mind and body have never settled, much to his mother’s dismay. They move as nomads, but they move in settled groups where everyone owes their work to the family.

Otabek finds no fault in such a lifestyle because it’s all he’s ever known, and he doesn’t wish to change it, but his mind wanders. The winters make him restless and brooding, unable to stray far away from home, always the same horizon. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, which creates unease for his family, but he knows it isn’t to marry. Not yet.

Yuri is like a piece of something bigger. Something that keeps Otabek’s mind occupied. He doesn’t have to be a spirit to be a mystery. And he isn’t as helpless as Otabek first thought he would be, in those silky, foreign clothes. He isn’t as good an archer as Otabek, especially not while on horseback, but when standing still he turns out to be very accurate. The way he holds the bow is unfamiliar, and he puts the arrow on the inside, next to his cheek. He pulls the string back with three fingers, instead of the thumb and ring like Otabek.

They have the time and leisure during those days at the Three Sisters camp to learn a great deal more about each other, even with the continuing problem of language. They trade words of things—bow, arrow, rabbit, saddle, sun, moon, grass, water, sky, snow—as they come across them. Otabek is happy to keep Yuri to himself, cradled and shielded by the responsibility Altynbek had placed on him.

Yuri is tamed by the clothes he is given; he’s made familiar, but not entirely so. He remains just on the edge of otherness, especially at night when they curl up in their bedrolls and Yuri looks at Otabek across the short distance separating them.

“Do you know the story about the boy and the bear?” Otabek asks one evening inside the yurt. The banked embers still glow, but they’re behind Yuri, leaving Yuri into shadow as faces Otabek. “I suppose not,” Otabek whispers. “Let me tell you.”

Yuri acquiesces with a soft noise. Otabek listens a while longer to make sure his mother’s breath is even and undisturbed by them.

“I’ve never seen a bear,” Otabek says. “Mom hasn’t either, even though she’s from the northern steppes. And even though her family symbol is a bear. She used to tell me that the bear is a godling, lowered from the sky with silver ropes and in a gold basket. The bear is the son of the Big Bear you can still see in the sky.” He pauses, knowing Yuri could at least pick out the North Star when it was visible. Maybe he knows other stars too.

“I know the story is supposed to say that the godling bear met a beautiful woman and they had strong, heroic children, but sometimes mom would say the bear met a boy instead and they became friends. That’s the version I like better. They never separated even though the bear was feared in many places and worshipped in others.”

Yuri makes another soft sound when Otabek pauses a second time. He reaches over and touches the back of Otabek’s hand, then tugs on his fingers as if to say _keep going_. Otabek curls his fingers around Yuri’s.

“Mom said the bear told the boy his true name, but forbade him from ever sharing it with anyone because it was too powerful. It could be used to do great harm. But there were people who also wanted that power when they saw the boy and bear together, realising that the beast wasn’t ordinary.

“They took the boy and tried to make him tell them what the bear’s name was, but he never spoke it. And for that, they killed him. The bear was enraged and, in turn, ate the people and their livestock, taking their everything. Afterwards he swore that humans would never know the true name of bears, which meant bears would never be tamed.

“Then he carried the boy’s body to the highest mountain and took him to the stars. The boy became his eternal companion, the Guardian of the Bear, who walks just in front of the Big Bear in the sky. They walk the same path every night, every day of the year. Always together.”

There’s no way Yuri understands, but he listens as though he does, holding onto Otabek’s fingers. “Бear,” he whispers, as if he’s grasped the essence of the story through one of the few words they’d exchanged. “Бека.”

“Some of us wander all our lives,” Otabek murmurs. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, but they slip shut anyway. Half-asleep, he listens to Yuri’s answering story, not able to pick out any of the words, just the tone of voice which calms him. How lively Yuri could be, and then how soothing.

On their last day at the Three Sisters, the weather turns sharply, bringing a bitter wind and rushing clouds. The family makes their preparations to leave quickly and quietly, although many a glance is shot at the sky. Yuri and Otabek separate from Eyinzhu to herd the horses for the remainder of the trek. They’re accompanied by Janibek, Ulyrau, and Altynbek, although during the days they will hardly see each other, communicating through whistles.

The sky grows even darker as they leave the last shelter of the Sisters, and the air has a new taste of cold as they ride onto the plains proper. “Looks like snow,” Otabek remarks at the sight of the threatening clouds.

Yuri seems to recognise it too.

~

The wind on the open steppe is harsh, and Yuri’s fair skin suffers for it. The second day after leaving the shelter of the canyon walls, the wind comes, sweeping across the flatlands with nothing in its path to stop or deflect its sharp edge. The clouds reach from horizon to horizon, bringing the sky closer down and filling the family group with a sense of unease. They still have some distance until their winter home.

The wind is also cold, and while Otabek is used to it, he doesn’t enjoy it. Yuri does so even less. After their midday rest, spent huddling behind in the lean-to tent to keep away from the worst of the wind, Yuri comes to Otabek instead of going to his borrowed horse.

“Бека,” he says and holds his arms up as if Otabek could lift him up off the ground and onto his horse.

Otabek glances around, but the closest to him is his father on the other side of the herd, and bad weather does tend to curb one’s curiosity. Otabek still feels a jolt of guilt at being secretly happy that Yuri is asking to ride with him. The guilt settles low in his belly and becomes an undispellable warmth as he helps Yuri climb on and sit in front of him. He undoes the belt of his overcoat and lets Yuri burrow under its edges and to lean on him.

Otabek sends his horse forwards with a soft click of his tongue, leaving the reins free. He takes Snow Cloud’s lead and ties it onto his saddle to keep Yuri’s horse with them as they begin the second leg of the day’s journey. He still has to keep an eye out on the flank, but watching over the herd is a pleasantly lonely occupation.

Whenever a gust of wind comes that threatens to strip the skin off Otabek’s face, he turns his head down and buries his nose in Yuri’s hair. His wispy light hair flies in the wind, not restrained much by the braid or the leather wrap on his forehead. When there’s a rest in the wind, Otabek takes one hand from around Yuri and touches his thigh, making Yuri what-noise him and crane his neck to try and see him.

“How’s the wound?” Otabek asks, rubbing the spot, hoping Yuri understands his meaning.

“да,” Yuri says, nodding, as if to confirm something. Otabek takes it as a good sign. He hasn’t seen Yuri limp or favour the leg at all.

“Good,” Otabek says and puts his arm around Yuri again, both of them hunching their shoulders when another blast of wind carries across the steppe, dusting them with fine particles of sand or snow, both sharp and stinging. When it passes, Yuri shakes his head and speaks lightly, but with a strained undertone.

“I see,” Otabek says when a response seems to be required. Yuri cranes his head again, to see Otabek from the corner of his eye, but with Otabek’s reply, he faces the front again.

“да,” Yuri says, cold fingers creeping into Otabek’s sleeves.

“Yes,” Otabek agrees in a murmur, shifting his seat, which causes Yuri to slide against him. Yuri’s feet are hanging free, only propped up by Otabek’s knees as he has the stirrups. It shouldn’t be comfortable, and in some ways, after long hours, it isn’t, but Yuri’s warm weight gives Otabek something new and interesting to focus on.

Yuri smells sweet even through the consistent scent layers of horse and leather and sweat. It isn’t a sickly sweet smell, just the edge of something bright, like fresh grass. The horse’s gait rocks them together, slowly, slowly, until even the wind ceases to exist, and Otabek is wrapped up in the gentle sway.

Yuri speaks a few times. Once he points at the landscape, and Otabek doesn’t know what he’s indicating, but hums in response. The second time he puts his hand on Otabek’s thigh and pushes down on it, turning to speak over his shoulder. It’s a question of some sort, and Yuri is insistent.

“I don’t know,” Otabek says, which frustrates Yuri enough to make him squirm. The movement sends a spark of surprise and something else through Otabek, rubbing against his crotch. His gasp disappears into Yuri’s hair, and he unmounts the horse in a hurry, landing on the wind side of the animal. His burning face is gifted with the sharp edge of the wind, but it barely touches the heat and embarrassment.

“Бека,” Yuri says, looking down at him from the horse. He opens his mouth as if to continue speaking, but instead just blows air from between his pursed lips. Otabek can’t meet his eyes, and studies the horizon very intently. The clouds have hidden the sun, so the day has been dark, but it’s even darker now. Sunset. Yuri makes some noise and gets off the horse too, but he chooses the other side where he’s shielded from the wind by the animal.

They walk the rest of the evening until the whistle to stop comes. At that time, when the little lean-to is set up, the wind has died down, and the dark clouds open their arms and send down feather-like snow. They huddle under the lean-to, listening to the silence of falling snow, and the horses snorting and stomping in the cold weather.

The horse watchers often share a campfire in the evenings, but Otabek is not in the mood to face his family, and they settle for water and horse milk. The lean-to is meant for one person so it’s very close quarters for two bedrolls. Otabek tries to face away from Yuri, but Yuri pulls him around.

“Бека, бear,” he demands quietly. He keeps insisting until Otabek relents and retells the story of the bear. It does its job of soothing them both, and Otabek jolts only a little when one of Yuri’s hands worms its way into his bedroll and between his thighs.

“Yura,” he hisses, and is given a sleepy smile and an explanation he understands nothing of, but Yuri withdraws his hand, only to shift closer before wafting off to sleep. Otabek’s sleep takes a while to come, and it comes on both guilt and shock-ridden.

~

The hand that covers Otabek’s mouth is cold. “Tchh,” Yuri hisses in the dark.

Otabek goes stiff with surprise and tries to peel away Yuri’s hand before he tunes into the snuffling around the lean-to. The horses are close by, but not so close that a lonely predator would alarm them too much. There are hardly any in the steppes that are big enough alone to harm a horse, especially a herd of horses, but some are big enough to harm humans.

This one keeps sniffing around the area. It paws at the lean-to, and when it passes by the opening, Otabek sees the sleek movement of a cat against the faint light of the sky. A lynx, most likely drawn in by the smell of their food and the lack of nearby fires.

Yuri’s eyes are wide open, close enough for Otabek to see his pupils take up almost all the space in the iris. He breathes in little hitches, and the hand covering Otabek’s mouth shakes in tiny tremors. Otabek reaches around him, pulls him closer, and slowly gets Yuri to remove the hand covering his mouth.

“Yura,” he breathes, then mimes silence, pressing Yuri down. But Otabek doesn’t even try to be covert when he grabs his blade and thumps his hand against the ground. “Hyaah! Go! Leave!” He thumps the ground over and over again, until the sound of snuffling is gone.

Yuri grabs his sleeve and what-noises him many times, interspersed with clear expletives. There’s fear still in his voice, but mostly surprise and even anger. Otabek pats him around his head in the dark, shushing him.

“It was probably a lynx. They’re shy animals,” he explains, bundling Yuri back into the bedroll. “They go away if you’re loud. Mew.” He attempts to imitate the mewls of the lynx cub he’d cared for. Yuri makes a long sigh.

“Бека,” he says then. “мяу?”

The meow from Yuri is softer and smaller, not quite like a lynx cub, but a cat. “Yes,” Otabek says. “Yes. That’s right.” He hopes Yuri knows his yes-sound too.

“да,” Yuri echoes. He passes a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, then laughs with a rueful tone, soft and almost noiseless. He expresses more relief with a few words and cuddles up to Otabek like a cat himself until his shaking subsides. By then he’s already asleep again.

In the morning, warming up by a meagre fire, the herders drink tea and eye the footsteps the lynx had left in the snow. The herd is fine and all animals are accounted for. It’s the weather that worries both man and horse alike.

“We’ve had cold years before,” Altynbek says over the morning tea. “It’s likely we’ll see more predators around now. Let’s keep an eye out for wolves, in particular. Report any sign or sighting. Light a fire every night if possible, and forgo it in the morning. The rest of the way home might get very uncomfortable.”

They’re all solemn at those words. Even Yuri, even if he only understands the faces around him and not the reason.

“Did he sing?” Ulyrau asks conspiratorially as they break from the morning meeting.

“No,” Otabek says. Yuri had only hummed, and that’s beside the point.

“Mm-hm.” Ulyrau nods and raises his eyebrows at Yuri.

Otabek finds it strange to think Ulyrau and Yuri are almost the same age. He still thinks of Ulyrau as being a child, even though he’s grown so much in the last year that he’s had to borrow clothes from his older brothers. Maybe it’s the way Yuri has to be silent and is often looking wistful or intense that makes Otabek think of him less a child, although his build is slighter than Ulyrau’s.

“I wonder how you see us,” Otabek mutters as they saddle their horses and start out for the day.

Yuri what-noises in response, and then waits for an elaboration as though it was an actual conversation.

“I wonder how you see me,” Otabek adds. “After what I- After what happened the other day. You were only looking for shelter. You’re only looking for a way back home. I wish I could apologise and explain, although I don’t know how to explain. Maybe I would say that I think you’re beautiful in the same way my brother thinks of his wife. In the way that my body knows when I look at you or when I’m near you.”

Otabek falls quiet, his thoughts a muddled pile. Yuri waits for more words, but when there are none, he says his yes-noise quietly.

~

The nights are darker—or perhaps they only seem so because they’re also colder—even when the stars are out. On clear nights, Yuri sits outside the lean-to, his back turned to the fire and sings up to the sky, watching the stars wheel around and the moon rise. No snow comes even though he sings, but the darkness becomes inundated with small gleaming eyes, as if the animals are listening to him.

There is a night when Yuri’s song is taken over by wolves, howling somewhere in the cold dark beyond their fires. The horses are restless, and the herders stay up the night, feeding their fires to make sure the wolves stay away. Yuri doesn’t sing after that.

A thin crust of frost and snow glaze the ground for the rest of the family’s return journey to their winter pastures. Some of the bigger family unit—brothers, cousins, grandparents—stay at Seven Rivers year-round, tending to trade and the permanent dwellings during the summer. The weather remains cold and still, and each night Yuri curls up closer to Otabek.

Ulyrau rides alongside them for a day, quizzing Otabek whether Yuri had been singing again and then playing a game with Yuri where Yuri imitates animal noises and behaviour and Ulyrau gives him the name of the animal. It incurs a lot of laughter in Otabek’s younger cousin, and Otabek finds himself smiling too. He is happy that despite Ulyrau’s insistence that Yuri is a spirit, he isn’t too wary of him.

There is no hill to crest or any dramatic reveal of the waters of lake Balkhash. There is no sun to reflect off the waves, so at first it looks just like a stretch of even flatter land. It takes Otabek pointing it out for Yuri to realise.

“Yura,” he says. “Look. It’s the lake. We’re at Seven Rivers now.” They’ve reached the northern edge of the lake, and Otabek already recognises many of the landmarks. There’s only half a day’s journey left to reach their wintering grounds.

Yuri’s what-noise is a little disinterested until he notices the water. He sits up on Snow Cloud. “Семиречье?” he asks.

“Yeah, the town itself is a little further south and west of us,” Otabek says. He can’t be sure Yuri means the same place, but it seems likely. Excitement churns in Otabek’s stomach when he realises he’ll soon be able to communicate with Yuri more thoroughly, albeit through a translator. “We’ll soon find out what happened to you,” he continues. “And how we can help you.”

Yuri makes another what-noise, looking at him now.

“I suppose it’ll mean you’ll leave,” Otabek adds more quietly. Yuri tilts his head, frowning. “Home,” Otabek says, pointing north.

Yuri glances in the direction and nods slowly, uncertainly, then adds words, which Otabek listens to, but can’t understand. Yuri huffs his frustration and lets go, shaking his head.

“Soon,” Otabek promises. He urges his horse forwards. Yuri stays still, looking up at the sky because he’s spotted the eagle circling. His face is solemn and looks very pale against the dark backdrop of the sky. Then he hurries Snow Cloud along, trotting up to Otabek. He links their gazes and holds Otabek there for a while, then turns to face the expanding view of the lake in front of them, beginning to hum under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information regarding Mediterranean vs. thumb bow draw, see <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bow_draw>


	10. Chapter 10

For the duration of the winter months, the family moves much less. The fertile pastures of the steppe on the north-east side of the lake are close enough for the family to stay virtually still for the cold season. The men take turns looking after the horses, and there’s a lot of leisure time. Time for games and contests and stories, as well as crafts, repairs, and tending to alliances, both old and new.

Otabek, as an unmarried young man, still shares a winter dwelling with his mother. This is the place where he brings Yuri. The winter dwellings are a more permanent type of yurt, dug into the ground and made stronger by low stone walls and wood panelling. The inside is divided by movable panels made of painted and decorated hides as well as built-in walls of felt-covered wooden lattices, separating sleeping areas from the central living area.

The first night back is important. A ritual celebration that involves opening and airing out the winter dwellings, lighting the hearths, and having a good sweat and scrub in the shared sweatlodge, followed by a feast, music, and dancing. A large part of it is purely celebration at reaching the end of another year, the remaining part is ritual, making sure the spirits know the family is back.

The family is sufficiently used to Yuri so Otabek doesn’t feel obligated to keep him away from the festivities. There’s some added joy when Dilraba announces she’s pregnant with her second child, and Altynbek leads the men of the family in a dance to celebrate.

“Come, Yura,” Otabek says, out of breath and with the music spurring him on. “I’ll show you.” He doesn’t take Yuri to the middle of the circle, but shows him the steps on the edge of the bonfire’s light.

Yuri is surprised and excited to dance, having only been clapping to the music until then. He’s also light on his feet and embellishes the basic steps Otabek shows him with some of his own, throwing his legs this way and that in high kicks. It draws the attention of some of the children, who soon join them, trying to imitate Yuri. They’re more amused than afraid as Yuri whirls himself into exhaustion.

The celebratory fermented mare’s milk is acidic and makes Otabek feel a little floaty. He makes sure they’re the last ones to the sweatlodge after the dancing and feasting because he doesn’t wish for Yuri to feel threatened.

“Что? Что?” Yuri repeats his what-noise when Otabek pulls him into the sweatlodge.

“Bath,” Otabek says, placing the bag of toiletries and towels on a bench in the entryway. Even there the warmth is obvious.

Yuri seems to taste the air, sticking out his tongue and licking at his lips. “Бath?”

There aren’t many lights inside, only a small lamp in the entryway, and the glow of the coals in the heated chamber. Yuri’s face is red with the combination of cold and exertion, but he follows Otabek in starting to take off his clothes.

“You’ll like it,” Otabek promises, undoing his belt. He pulls off his felted overtunic and the softer undershirt and catches Yuri looking at him, pause written on his face. “Bath,” Otabek repeats and tries to mime washing himself.

“Бath,” Yuri echoes both the word and the gestures, then his face brightens and he begins shucking off his clothes as quickly as possible. “Хорошо, давай!”

“You got it. Davai, davai.” Otabek smiles. The last thing he does after taking his clothes off is to undo his long horsetail braid with his fingers. As much as he looks forwards to the sweet fresh vegetables and fruit served at the feast, grown by the families of his uncles, it’s the proper facilities to bathe that he really enjoys after half a year of cold rivers.

Otabek holds the heavy wool drape aside for Yuri to enter the heated chamber. Yuri is still pulling his greasy hair out of its braid, exclaiming eagerly when the hot air hits him. Otabek feels loose and good, until his senses are overtaken by the way Yuri’s skin glows in the light of the coals. All of the naked skin, from his shoulders to his heels, the darker patch on his thigh, the shadows between his legs.

Otabek drops onto one of the hide-covered benches and fills the room with steam by drizzling water over the coals. “Sit,” he tells Yuri, voice cracking. He pats the bench, and Yuri sits right there, asking questions, scratching himself all over.

As the steam and heat fill the space even further, Yuri exclaims again in recognition and grabs the wooden, long-necked ladle from Otabek to douse the coals with water, far more aggressively than Otabek had done. The steam is scorching, and Otabek squeezes his eyes shut against it, leaning forwards onto his knees. Yuri scoffs and makes a comment that sounds like a challenge.

“It’s too hot,” Otabek gasps. Yuri is leaning back on the bench, enjoying it, instantly bejewelled by sweat and condensing steam. Otabek enjoys a pleasant heat, long enough to chase away the cold of the oncoming winter, but not like this, not hot enough to roast his lungs as he tries to breathe.

Either Yuri takes pity on him or he’s had enough himself, but the next water application to the stones is far more considerate. He scratches himself again and what-noises Otabek who’s looking, then follows up with gestures that Otabek can’t interpret. They look like he wants something to hit himself with, but he sighs and gives up in the face of Otabek’s lack of recognition and bewilderment, then just scratches himself idly.

When the heat has worked itself deep into Otabek’s bones, he arranges for a bail of water and slightly sudsy soapwort liquid to start his first task of getting properly clean and spiritually pure, which is to shave. Yuri comes off the bench to kneel next to Otabek, watching curiously. He touches his own soft-skinned chin, lacking the bristly stubble Otabek has, and says a few curious words.

“I guess you really don’t need it,” Otabek tells him, creating a slight foam with the soapwort to help the knife slide on his skin. The steam has worked to soften the hairs. “It’s itchy anyway. You look like you itch enough.” Maybe it’s the lightness of the hair on Yuri or its actual sparseness, but there doesn’t seem to be much that would require shaving anyway.

Yuri watches so intently that Otabek grows self-conscious. And when Otabek’s shaving continues past his chin, taking the hair grown at the sides of his head, then his arms and legs and finally also the dark patch of pubic hair, Yuri exclaims in surprise and stares with his mouth rounded. Enough for Otabek to try and turn away from the gaze and whatever his body thinks it knows.

“It’s to signify purity, but it’s also an offering,” Otabek explains to take his mind off the situation. “It’s part of my body, and I’m giving it to the spirits.” He’s saved the biggest clumps of hair and tosses them onto the coals, following them with an herbaceous powder to cover the acrid smell of burning hair.

Yuri doesn’t ask any questions, but reaches to touch Otabek’s freshly shaved cheek, although his gaze goes down to the other shaved parts, and he inhales as if to say something at length, although the only thing that comes out is a strained, “Бека.”

The harshest heat has dissipated, leaving them in a hazy, slightly wet steam that curls up and moistens their skin. Yuri’s hair is lank and slightly darker when wet, but gives him the unmistakable look of a wet cat that makes Otabek smile despite the situation. Yuri perks up, seeing the smile, and grins back even though he can have no idea why Otabek is amused in the first place.

“Come here,” Otabek invites Yuri over to the water containers, ducking to fill a pail with cool water, and immediately douses Yuri with it, which makes Yuri shriek and laugh.

“Бека!” Yuri chides, snorting and wiping wet hair off his face. As Otabek lifts the pail to pour the water on himself, Yuri shoves at the bottom of it to make it splash out into Otabek’s face, then cackles with feeling as Otabek sputters.

The washing area has an earthen floor, but with raised wooden slats above it to keep the bathers’ feet clean and to give the water a way to escape after being used. The amount of water in the big wooden pails is low after the sweatlodge has already been used by everyone else, but there’s enough to get them both thoroughly wetted and for rinsing afterwards. The main part is the scrubbing with the rough washcloths and the harsh lye-and-potash soap.

Otabek hands Yuri the washing implements. “Like this,” he murmurs, feeling glad that Yuri isn’t awkward with him, and then feeling guilty because Yuri has no choice. He takes the soap and rubs it in his wet hair. “Go on. You too.” But instead of moving to copy it on his own hair, Yuri pushes his fingers between Otabek’s and rubs at his scalp vigorously.

“Yura,” Otabek says, ducking his head automatically because Yuri is just a little bit shorter. “Yura...”

Yuri what-noises him impatiently, but stops, squeezing suds from the top of Otabek’s hair.

“No, keep going.” Otabek sinks onto a low three-legged stool set by the washing pails, eyes closed. “No one’s washed my hair since my mom did it for me.” Yuri moves around him, which at least allows Otabek to open his eyes and not stare at Yuri’s crotch and the faintly scarred thigh. Yuri puts his hands back in Otabek’s hair and continues to scrub, rubbing the long part between his hands.

Yuri hums under his breath, bringing further closeness to the space that is already intimate with the clinging steam. The coals and hot stones are usually covered in dried herbs for scent and relaxation, and for the purpose of spiritual purification to go with the physical. The tepid water Yuri tilts over Otabek’s head feels almost cool and refreshing, and Otabek runs his hands through his hair to get the lather out.

When Otabek goes to get up, Yuri presses him down with a quick, “ _Eh, Бека!_ ”, and drags over a second small stool as well as the washcloths. He seats himself behind Otabek and lathers up his back, all the way from the back of his neck down to the part he sits on and parts of his arms, then starts scrubbing with the washcloth. This time he doesn’t sing or hum, just grunts and swears, working hard.

“Ow, Yura,” Otabek leans on his knees to brace against the force Yuri is using. “It’s like being washed by mother lynx. Rough tongue.” He glances over his shoulder to see Yuri’s concentrated face and smiles. “Yura.”

Yuri says something at length, looking very determined, and scrubs harder. Otabek hangs his head between his knees like he’d done with the hot steam bath earlier. Despite the vigorous washing he’s undergoing, hardness and heat blooms between his legs when Yuri runs his hand down his back instead of the cloth, maybe chasing away suds. Even the following splash of rinsing water doesn’t dispel the effect Yuri has on him, and even if it had, the arms going around his chest bring him back to full attention. Yuri presses his smooth cheek against the unreachable spot between Otabek’s shoulderblades and squeezes him.

“Бека,” he says, muffled. Otabek’s skin is slippery with water and remnants of soap; it’s easy for Yuri to slide his hands down and skim the areas Otabek had shaved.

Otabek catches Yuri’s hands and pulls them away from himself, turning just enough to see Yuri’s heat-pinked face and determined eyes. “You want the same?” Otabek asks, awkwardly trying to press his knees together to hide what needs to be hidden.

Yuri makes a querying sound, and Otabek picks up the soap and washcloth, to which Yuri nods and swivels on his seat to present his back to Otabek. Otabek makes himself busy with pouring clean water into the washing bowl.

“Yura. Tilt your head back.” Otabek has to reach around Yuri to guide him into tipping his head back, and catches sight of his relaxed face. His eyes are closed and lips slightly parted, a sheen of water and heat on his cheeks.

Otabek pulls back quickly, almost spilling the water he’s prepared. He pours the lukewarm water over Yuri’s hair, hands shaking, then gets the soap to rub into the fine, pale strands of hair. The nature of the lye soap is severe, and when used in combination with the relentless nature of the steppe sun, it can lighten hair. Some women and men use it for that purpose, but it also makes their hair brittle. Otabek takes this into account and uses only very little of the soap to wash Yuri’s hair. He’d hate to see it break off.

Yuri begins to hum again, a few words of song coming from his lips as he rocks on the stool, enjoying as Otabek carefully works through his hair. He stops to gasp as Otabek rinses the lather away as fast as possible, but then continues to sing softly, leaning against Otabek’s hands, which are now working the grime from his back.

“What are you singing?” Otabek asks. Yuri’s skin reddens where the washcloth passes, and Otabek soothes every bit by stroking with his hand, hoping he isn’t being too rough. “Everything you sing sounds so strange. But I guess that makes sense. They’re from a different place. You’ve seen more of the world than I ever have. Do you realise that, Yura?”

Yuri stops when he hears his name and waits, but when Otabek makes no demand, the humming begins anew. And Otabek slows down, not wanting for his pleasurable task to end. Yuri doesn’t object even when Otabek abandons the washcloth entirely, having already washed Yuri’s back twice over, and just strokes his skin instead.

“You must’ve travelled such a long way,” Otabek murmurs. He leans in and places his cheek against the top of Yuri’s back, stroking his arms instead. Yuri keeps humming, and his back thrums under Otabek’s cheek.

“Бath,” Yuri murmurs.

“You’re right.” Otabek nuzzles into the nape of Yuri’s neck, right into the wet hair, before pulling away. It hasn’t helped his issue at all, especially with Yuri being so pliant and not pushing him away.

Yuri rinses out the washcloth Otabek had used on him and picks up the soap to continue washing himself, his back still to Otabek. Otabek watches slightly too long, then turns to tend to himself. This ritual washing used to be much easier in the previous years. This time Otabek scrubs himself too hard and too fast, and brings himself off into the washcloth, just as hard and fast, chest burning with embarrassment and need. Yuri doesn’t seem to notice, and his humming and the sounds of washing blanket any noise Otabek might’ve made.

After rinsing they use the last of the water with the sweet-smelling herbs and flowers in it to chase away the scent of the lye soap. The scented water is refreshing, and Otabek is able to face Yuri with less trouble this time. In the entrance room, the cold is already noticeable as they wrap hide towels around themselves and slot their feet into their boots to make a dash over the frozen distance to Otabek’s mother’s winter dwelling.

The drape around Eyinzhu’s sleeping area is drawn, and the dwelling is quiet. The coals in the central firepit are banked and pop only occasionally. Otabek gestures for Yuri to be quiet as they climb into Otabek’s bed in the light of a single-wicked candle.

“We’ll think of better sleeping arrangements later,” Otabek promises in a whisper. “This is just for tonight.” He gestures at the space they’re sharing.

However, Yuri doesn’t look overly bothered. He exclaims softly in delight when feeling the furs piled high in Otabek’s bed. It’s much warmer inside the doubly insulated yurt than the travelling one, and Yuri discards his towel in favour of the horse hides and sheep fleeces. The cover is stitched together from rabbit skins. They’re much softer than the coarse felt bedrolls used during the summer travels.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Otabek murmurs, spellbound by Yuri’s blissful writhing. “Looks good,” he adds carelessly because Yuri doesn’t know what he’s saying. Yuri looks just as soft and golden as the fleeces. He has the odd fading bruise here and there on his body, but the wound on his thigh is just a red welt now, with the bath having softened away the scab.

Yuri rolls onto his back and stretches, and Otabek pets his hair and reaches to stroke his ear, but with the way Yuri tilts his head into the touch, Otabek ends up caressing his cheek. Yuri nuzzles into his palm and lets out a little noise and a small grin. He’s far from the guarded victim of mysterious circumstances Otabek had brought along from the raided Muscovite caravan.

“I’m happy you trust me,” Otabek confides, curling up on his side to continue petting his beautiful rescue. “Look,” he says, pulling up one of the furs on his bed, a spotted, tan hide. “Do you recognise this?”

Yuri takes the fur and studies for a while, then looks up at Otabek with lambent eyes. “Рысь?” He holds the fur up and makes a face, then mewls like the night when the lynx had come to the camp. He holds up his hands, fingers apart and crooked like claws, and makes scratching motions. “Это рысь?”

“Yes, it’s a lynx,” Otabek agrees, petting the fur Yuri has pulled across his lap. He crooks his fingers like Yuri has and approximates the yowl of the feline, but quietly. Yuri looks startled, then laughs, nodding, repeating his yes-noise.

“She was dead when I found her,” Otabek says, heartened by the sweet sounds Yuri makes. “But I fed her cub as best I could. I kept her skin for the cub to sleep on, but he left me a long time ago. He grew up and left.”

Yuri listens to him very seriously and nods when Otabek is done as if information had actually passed between them and not just the most rudimentary form of communication. Otabek strokes his hand over the smooth definition of flat muscles and rib bones of Yuri’s chest.

“Yura,” Otabek whispers, shifting closer when Yuri shudders under his hand. “Are you the lynx cub? Did you come back to me? Did you- No. I’m sorry. You’re not a spirit or a cat.” Yuri is as human as anyone he knows. He’s warm and alive and looking at Otabek curiously.

The distance between them grows even less as Yuri inches closer and reaches up to touch Otabek’s hair. Neither of them has tied back their hair after the bath, and Yuri strokes the side of Otabek’s head, then picks up some of the long, damp strands and pulls his fingers through them. Otabek finds his own hand has paused, resting just above the bump of Yuri’s hipbone like it’s natural. Yuri has such smooth skin. There’s barely any catch between the rough skin of Otabek’s thumb and sliding it slowly against Yuri’s stomach.

The gap between their bodies closes like it’s natural too. Yuri hitches one leg higher, to hook his ankle behind Otabek’s knee, and Otabek’s arm goes around him, palm laid flat against Yuri’s spine. He straightens his other arm for Yuri to rest his head on, and Yuri smiles at him, so close and his pupils so wide in the flickering, dim light of the candle. It’s warm, and Yuri feels even softer than the fleeces; he’s like the shiny cloth from the eastern traders.

First the tips of their noses touch, then their lips. Otabek’s heart races faster than a galloping horse, and Yuri strokes the back of his neck, his hair, his shoulder, murmuring words out of which Otabek only comprehends his name. But there’s no tone that would call for him to stop; Yuri’s lips don’t turn hard with rejection even once.

The noises and breaths from Yuri are like a song unto themselves, coming faster but not louder when Otabek strokes his back lower and lower, passing over the supple part of his behind and curling around the top of his thigh. Otabek doesn’t know which one of them is trembling more when he rolls onto his back and brings Yuri with him, causing new hot and sticky friction between their lower bodies. The candle is almost out, flickering and making the shadows greater than the objects that cast them.

Yuri presses his face into Otabek’s neck, panting against his skin, moving his hips in little rolls, legs spread on either side of Otabek. And Otabek gasps alarmingly loud, moving Yuri’s hair around with his puffs of air as he lifts his hips off the furs to meet Yuri’s, hands curled under the pliable roundness of Yuri’s buttocks.

Yuri clutches at handfuls of Otabek’s hair and the furs, whining quietly into Otabek’s ear. His body shudders and a warm splash is released between them.

“Yura, Yura...” Otabek repeats, eyes squeezed shut and voice cracking between a whisper and moan. His release follows quickly after, his engorged member throbbing and twitching and spilling.

Otabek’s rest is cut short by Yuri shifting and making a sound of surprise and alarm. He gropes Otabek’s face, whispering, and Otabek opens his eyes to find the candle has gone out, leaving an impenetrable darkness.

“Shh,” he tells Yuri in an undertone, stroking his back like he would a spooked horse. “It’s okay. Look.” He reaches for the drapes of his sleeping alcove and opens them a fraction, letting the glow of the banked fire seep in. It’s just enough to dispel the absolute darkness and create shapes. Yuri sighs and slides off Otabek, and Otabek picks up one of the towels they’d used and wipes them both off, jolting in new arousal at the sound Yuri makes at that.

“O-oh,” Otabek breathes and pulls Yuri back by his ankle, landing on top of him to nuzzle at the vague suggestion of darkness where his parted lips are. Yuri squirms and whispers words that end in a little indrawn, shuddery whisper of a laugh. Otabek seeks out the warmth of that breath with his lips and the bird’s wing beat of Yuri’s pulse with his hands.

Yuri’s thighs part under Otabek’s touch, revealing the hot and inviting prize. Yuri’s limbs are only vague white shapes against the furs in the dark, coming alive in contact with Otabek’s skin. His nails dig furrows into Otabek’s back, and his whispered words sound like encouragement. He tastes of sweat and excitement, and they find release again, moving together, Otabek’s hand wrapped around them both to feel the pulsing, liquid desire.

It leaves them both panting, and Otabek is overcome with a surge of possessiveness, of wanting to enclose himself in his bed with Yuri for the rest of their days and to have Yuri acquiesce to him over and over again. He stays on top of Yuri, holding him until Yuri yawns. Even then he finds it difficult to move away and he has to occupy his hands with grabbing onto one of the fleeces to stop going for Yuri again, while Yuri makes a half-hearted attempt at wiping himself clean with the towel.

There isn’t enough space to sleep apart, and it takes Otabek a while to calm down. For some reason, it’s also comforting to hear the hitch in Yuri’s breath every time Otabek restlessly changes position, letting him know Yuri has the same trouble. To comfort both of them, Otabek catches one of Yuri’s legs between his, which rewards him a sigh, and then silence until they both sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Otabek awakens to a song. Yuri’s voice is soft and a little hoarse. The light is different too. Not the red glow of coals, but the blue light of day. There still isn’t much of it, only a thin finger that casts its radiance through the gap in the drapes around the alcove. It lands across Yuri’s back, shielded by the white, shiny cloth of his undershirt. He’s sitting up, working his fingers through his hair, no longer wet but absolutely knotted together.

“Yura.” Otabek reaches out to touch him. It causes the singing to end, but Yuri smiles at him and lies back down, curling up against his side and resting his head on Otabek’s shoulder. “Oh, I must be mad,” Otabek whispers in realisation. “Why am I trying to help you _leave_?”

“Hm?” The breath released with the sound tickles Otabek’s neck, and he turns to encircle Yuri with both arms, pressing his nose into the nest of hair.

“Why can’t my home be your home?” Otabek murmurs. The undershirt is warm after having been worn a while and adds a tantalising not-quite-there barrier between Otabek’s hand and Yuri’s skin.

“Бека?” Yuri questions. His next comment is made in an undertone, with little puffs of laughter into the side of Otabek’s neck. He wraps his fingers around Otabek’s half-erect member and repeats his words, causing Otabek’s cheeks to heat up and the grabbed part of his body to harden further.

“Ah, Yura…” Otabek pulls away and gets up, receiving a barrage of questions from Yuri. “I have to- Come on.” He slides out of bed and grabs his coat, wrapping the thick leather around himself. “Yura, come on,” he repeats, pulling Yuri out of the bed, which only causes more questions. Otabek attempts to answer them with awkward gestures to explain he really needs to relieve himself. It seems to get through because soon Yuri is nodding, throwing on his borrowed coat on top of the undershirt.

They wear their boots unlaced and hurry outside, where fresh snow has blanketed the structures and the landscape alike, making it look like the smoke from cooking fires is coming out of the top of snow mounds and not yurts. Yuri gasps in happiness, his cheeks and nose turning red almost immediately in the cold. The business of morning rituals is more difficult than usual with the hand-instilled hardness, and Yuri laughs when he realises Otabek’s problem, revealing he has the same issue. They stop to wash their hands on the way back and to have a drink of water to rinse their mouths.

The morning is already quite far along, but nobody stops them, and there are only a few greetings to be had. Back inside the yurt, Otabek finds his mother is already gone, and they tumble back into bed, invigorated by the dash in the snow. Yuri curls up, holding his toes with his hands, but grinning, and Otabek curls around him, breathing in the scent of spring grass.

The undershirt proves a pleasant distraction again. It lets Otabek’s hands slide effortlessly up and down Yuri’s arms and body, and pulling at the collar when the laces in front are undone reveals a vulnerable nape. Biting into it makes Yuri squirm and cackle, shoving his elbows into Otabek. When Otabek holds him tighter, the slippery material of the shirt proves beneficial to Yuri, who slides out of the shirt and Otabek’s grasp at the same time.

Yuri has the same expression as a playful cat, eyes wide and his mouth a little open, teeth peeking out. Otabek buries his nose in the soft shirt left in his arms, staring at him. Yuri isn’t just a collection of shadows and shapes in the daylight. It still isn’t bright inside the yurt, but now there’s enough light to reveal details. Yuri’s hair is a fluffy mess of knots and snarls. He is more skin and bone than flesh, all protruding angles, except for the slight roundness of his cheeks and buttocks. The wound on his thigh will probably leave a faint scar.

“That.” Otabek points at the wound. “How’d you get it?”

Yuri interprets the question the way he wants and shifts closer, taking Otabek’s hand and planting it over the stripe of miscoloured skin.

“I didn’t-” Otabek finds himself smiling. “Whatever. What a nice leg.” He strokes Yuri’s skin.

In return, Yuri touches Otabek’s shoulder and bicep, cooing in admiration. He even curls his own arm to tense the muscles of his upper arm, then draws and exaggerated bulge over his bicep with his other hand, following it with a motion at Otabek and an explanation, which completely escapes Otabek as he leans over Yuri, planting his hands on either side of him.

“Бека,” Yuri says at the end of his story.

“Yes,” Otabek says. Their noses touch. Their mouths touch. Their bodies become entwined.

Otabek has nothing to compare to, but the feel of Yuri’s lithe, hard body and the sight of his wide eyes and parted, flushed lips are enough to drive all reason out of Otabek’s mind. The scent becomes a taste as Otabek buries is face in Yuri’s neck and licks and bites. He follows his instinct and urges Yuri to lie on his front, then mounts him like a horse would, rubbing his member in the cleft of Yuri’s buttocks and between his thighs.

They thoroughly soil one of the golden sheep fleeces, but it’s a small price to pay.

~

“The Elderman’s great-granddaughter is the same age as you,” Eyinzhu says on the morning of Otabek and Yuri’s departure towards the trade settlement, a few days of rest and intimacy later. “Don’t make a face.”

“I’m not making a face,” Otabek says as he saddles Burdock. He peers over her back to make sure Yuri is on track with doing the same, but his worry is needless. Yuri has already completed the task and is patting Snow Cloud’s nose, murmuring to him in his language.

“I’m just saying,” Eyinzhu huffs.

“Her father’s a tradesman, isn’t he?” Otabek says, turning to face his mother. “Not a herdsman.”

“That’s right,” Eyinzhu confirms. “Her dowry would be in iron and silver. And contacts.”

“I’m not going to become a trader, mom,” Otabek says, circling his mother to grab his backpack. “Yura,” he calls. “I’ve got something for you.”

Eyinzhu steps between them, lifting her hand to stop Yuri. “You’ll inherit a portion of my livestock to go on to your daughters,” she says. “I’ve none, so your first wife’s dowry doesn’t have to be animals.”

Otabek looks at her serious face and nods. “I know,” he says, then steps around her again. “Yura. Here.” He holds out a knife, a vastly superior one to his everyday blade, decorated with silver and semi-precious green stones. He’s never had the heart to use it when more practical choices are available, but Yuri needs a blade.

“You’re just giving that away?” Eyinzhu asks as Yuri hesitantly accepts.

“Well, I’m not using it,” Otabek says. “This too. Yura.” He hands him a bow, still serviceable, although a bit smaller than the one Otabek has now. The collar of the coat Yuri is wearing is held shut by the silver clasp Otabek had won with his archery.

“Yes, but to just give it away without receiving anything in return?” Eyinzhu protests. “A blade that’s part of your bride gifts?”

“I understand,” Otabek insists. “I know it’s a loss. I know I’m forfeiting a possible future gain. I want to give it to Yura. Mom.” He grasps her by her shoulders, stroking the fur accents of her heavy winter dress. “We need to go now. I want to get to the outpost before dark.” And dark comes early in the fall season.

Eyinzhu sighs and leans in to rub cheeks with him. “Yes, fine. Do what you wish, my light. Just be safe.”

Otabek secures his fur hat. “We’ll be back in a few days, I think.” He glances at Yuri while mounting his horse. Yuri is following his example. When he, too, puts on his hat, he looks almost like everyone else. “Or I will be. I don’t know.”

“You’re too soft-hearted sometimes,” Eyinzhu says. “To get attached to outsiders and animals.”

“Bye, mom,” Otabek says and guides his horse into a walk, making sure Yuri follows.

“Прощай!” Yuri waves at Eyinzhu as they start down the path. The family’s winter dwellings are in the lee of a rocky hill which directs the wind away, but the cold has become more obvious in the few days they’ve been home. The snow has stayed on the ground and the frosted stalks of grass crunch under the hooves of the horses as they wind their way through the dwellings.

Altynbek and Otabek’s older brother, Kireybek, are sitting outside one of the yurts, watching as the younger children play in the snow. “Find out all the news and the price for fleece,” Altynbek calls out.

“And for the love of spirits, find a wife, little brother,” Kireybek adds. “Mom has been talking my ear off about it.”

“Where are you going?” Sarnai runs up to the horses without any fear of the big animals and tries to reach up to Otabek’s leg. “Are you taking the cat away?”

“I’ll be back soon,” Otabek promises. Aigerim runs up to catch Sarnai and picks her up.

“It’s not a cat, it’s a snow spirit. My brother says so,” Aigerim insists, and they both look at Yuri with some awe.

“Snow cat,” Sarnai decides.

Otabek knows better than to argue the point. He waves at his father and brother and reaches down to pat Sarnai’s head on his way past. Yuri doesn’t wave or say anything, and moves his horse to ride next to Otabek, on the far side from everyone else.

“Bye!” Otabek says and hurries his horse along, gesturing for Yuri to keep up. Soon they canter down the side of the lake, their horses kicking up mud and clods of dirt and grass, wet from the melting snow. The rushing air and the sound of the horses’ hooves feel like freedom.

~

Yuri is full of talk and spirit that day. They crest the undulating hills of the lakeside over and over again, and Yuri keeps pointing every which way, at birds and clouds and landborne animals. On a particularly high hill, they stop to look at the lake, its expanse of grey waves and the small fishing boats that are just visible near the far shore.

Although the hill has no cover either against eyes or the weather, they stop there shortly to have a midday meal of fatty travel rations. Without making a fire, the weather is too cold for staying still for a long period of time, but they make do by sitting very close to each other, and then embracing for a while.

When they continue to ride, Yuri tries out the bow. They’re compact things and require a bit of upper body strength to draw properly, but Yuri’s issue is the slowness of setting the arrow on the inside, next to his cheek. Otabek doesn’t try to correct him because he can’t explain the difference between his and Yuri’s style, and why the way he does it is superior.

The town of Seven Rivers is an actual established settlement. A trade hub. The Seven Rivers area is a central spot for people coming from any direction. The Chinese Empire to the east, the Rus to the north, the Turkish to the south, and the many, many trade imperiums of the west. Silk, spice, iron, and culture exchange hands in Seven Rivers, along with trade alliances and agreements, marriage contracts, and occasionally human trafficking.

The smoke from the city’s many permanent buildings is visible long before the city itself. Yuri remarks on the column of smoke and the birds that circle around the place. The next comes the smell of people and animals packed in tightly together. The city outskirts are ringed with many types of non-permanent residences: yurts, carts, caravans, and tents of various descriptions. There are fewer at the start of the winter, but Yuri stands in his stirrups, scanning the area as soon as the multicoloured dwellings come into sight.

“нет. нет, нет,” Yuri mutters under his breath. Otabek knows the no-noise.

“What are you looking for?” Otabek asks, knowing both that Yuri can’t answer and that Yuri must be looking for familiar Muscovite carts or pennants. “There’s more on the other side.” Otabek points, and Yuri looks, but his face is drawn and solemn, and maybe a little frightened.

Yuri drops down into his saddle, startling Snow Cloud, and the horse circles around, tossing his head. Horses easily take on their rider’s and each other’s stress. Burdock whinnies and paces as well.

“Yura,” Otabek says when Yuri has Snow Cloud under control again. “You’ll soon be heard. I promise.” He reaches across the gap and squeezes Yuri’s arm under the bulky coat, looking him in the eye.

“да,” Yuri says quietly, then gestures at the city, speaking a few words.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Otabek agrees.

There must be a word for the feeling Otabek experiences when the city begins to close around them. There are more people, it smells different, and there isn’t always the space to ride side by side. The buildings are made of wood, stone, mud bricks, leather, bone, anything and everything. The streets are muddy, and various animals—dogs, chickens, cows, sheep, horses—have left their mark everywhere. One side of the city smells rotten because of the leather tanning, and another like fire and metal because of the blacksmiths.

The buildings aren’t tall, and sometimes just sitting on a horse is enough to be able to see over a dwelling, but the lack of openness makes Otabek’s neck itch. Yuri is wearing the round fur hat with its neck-protecting leather flaps and is mostly facing down as they ride. Otabek makes sure every few minutes that Snow Cloud and his rider are still behind him. It’s been almost a year since he’s visited the town, and the streets are not the same, but the Elderman’s compound is the biggest and most central one. It is a collection of buildings joined together to create a closed courtyard in the middle. The gates are still open, although flanked by smoky torches, by the time Otabek and Yuri arrive in the early evening.

Yuri’s face and hair are mostly covered by the hat and the fact he rides with his eyes down. It leaves Otabek feeling uncomfortable but glad he’s dressed Yuri in the style of his family, making him effectively invisible. Yuri keeps himself small while the traditions of courtesy and hospitality are taken care of. Otabek offers gifts from his family—horse hides, dried horse meat, and hanks of horsehair in all the different colours that nature has seen fit to create—and the Elderman’s grandson, the current leader of his clan, offers them mare’s milk before asking their business.

Otabek is far too aware of Yuri sniffing the cup of milk to be relaxed. He sips the drink and hopes Yuri just goes with it. He couldn’t have explained the courtesies even if he’d wanted to.

“I request a meeting with the Elderman,” Otabek says. They’ve been seated in a small heated chamber, on embroidered cushions around a low table. The customs and furnishings vary greatly between the herders and the settled people. Otabek isn’t used to the table and keeps knocking his elbows into it. “He speaks the language of the Rus.”

“That’s right, you’ve just returned to your winter pastures, haven’t you?” The grandson’s posture stiffens. “Sadly the Elderman is no longer with us. He passed during the summer, almost three months ago.”

“That’s… a great loss,” Otabek says, bowing his head, although it’s to hide the elation and then the sickness that follows. “I had counted on his prowess with languages.”

“Does your companion have something to do with it?” the grandson asks.

“Yes. We found him on our way back,” Otabek explains, gesturing at Yuri. “Everyone else was dead and he was wounded. But none of us speaks his language, and he doesn’t speak ours. So I had wished the Elderman would translate for us.” But if there’s no one to translate, Otabek can’t find out how to help Yuri get back home, and Yuri will have to stay, maybe even as late as the next spring. A whole winter that he could spend with Yuri.

“I see,” the grandson says. “I speak a little.”

His words in Yuri’s language are hesitant, but Yuri almost upends is his cup, startled upon hearing it. He glances at Otabek, who finds it adorable that Yuri is asking his permission to answer. He nods.

Their conversation isn’t long, and soon the grandson smiles ruefully. “Unfortunately that’s about the limit of my skills,” he says. “I asked his name and welcomed him to Seven Rivers,” he adds for Otabek’s benefit. “I think he said he was trying to get back home to his family. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“It’s all right,” Otabek says. Yuri is listening to them with a frown on his face, the undrunk cup of milk between his tense hands. “In that case we should find a place to stay for the night.”

“However.” The grandson holds up his hand. “A trade caravan that was heading north left the town just this morning. I believe some of the traders were Rus. They were heading west first, and it should be possible for you to catch up to them if you’re on horseback. Even if you start tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. We might try that,” Otabek says, driven into two directions by his forked desires.

“And on that note, if you don’t mind sleeping in with the horses tonight, you’re welcome to stay here. We’re hosting several traders at the moment, so we don’t have rooms to offer, but the horse shelter is available to you.” The grandson looks extremely embarrassed to suggest it. “Before you go, let me offer you supper.”

~

Yuri spills over with questions when they’re alone. Otabek listens, feeling pained, until Yuri’s enthusiasm wanes, and they end up holding hands in the dark of the horse shelter.

“I have questions too,” Otabek says. “I have so many questions, and you can’t answer any of them. I thought I’d finally find out everything I wanted to know. Is it the same for you?”

Yuri’s face is pinched and unhappy, but he listens seriously, even if he can only offer some small yes-noises in return. The disappointment is as thick as the smell of horses.

“A while longer won’t matter,” Otabek decides. “Right, Yura?”

Yuri tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “...Yes,” he says slowly, testing out the word.

Otabek’s surprise wears off quickly. “It’s as if you actually understood,” he says and lies down onto his bedroll that’s spread over the hay.

“Yes, Бека,” Yuri says again and follows him. He picks up the braided tail of Otabek’s hair and plays with it. The little lynx cub had liked to play with the tuft at the end too.

Otabek shifts closer and presses his forehead to Yuri’s. “Are you cold?” He takes Yuri’s hands between his and rubs them, then tucks them inside his coat. The shelter isn’t windproof, but neither is it open, and the hay is good insulation. It’s just an excuse to hold Yuri closer. An excuse that’s only for Otabek’s own benefit.

“In another version of the story, the heavenly bear meets a beautiful girl,” Otabek murmurs.

“Ah! Беar!” Yuri says in recognition and pulls back to grin at Otabek. “Беar! Беar!” he repeats, urging Otabek to keep going.

“I know.” Otabek brings Yuri close again, stroking the back of his head, trying to tuck in the unravelling ends of his braid. His hair is way too silky. “The bear sees she is kind and good, and she offers him a place to sleep and feeds him honey and berries. She does it without expecting anything in return, and the bear falls in love with her pure heart.”

Yuri questions the story from under Otabek’s chin with what-noises.

“But the people of her village are not happy. Men and gods aren’t supposed to mix, and they grow terribly frightened of the union of the bear and the girl. You see, men and gods, and spirits too, are from different worlds,” Otabek explains. “Gods are pure. They have to stay that way so that the world remains pure. The wind is pure. The sun is pure. The stars are pure. Nothing humans do can change that, and nothing humans do is allowed to change that. There are no pure humans, not anymore. The bear’s bride was the last one.”

Yuri wraps his arms around Otabek under Otabek’s coat and under the cover of their bedrolls.

“They loved each other, so in the end they had a son.” Otabek presses his face into Yuri’s hair, speaking quietly. “But neither the humans nor the gods liked that outcome, and the girl was put to death. The bear and his son, who also carried divine blood, were brought back to heaven. The son became the Guardian, and they walk across the sky every night, hoping for the girl’s return, even though she’s not allowed up there and they’re not allowed down here.”

“Nn?” Yuri questions the ending when Otabek falls silent.

“That’s how it should be,” Otabek sighs. “Everyone in their own place. Me too. And you.” Otabek has never questioned his place. Not even now. He’s happy with his place. He’s good with horses, and the vast grass seas of the steppes are his home. The wind has the scent of earth, and the sky is endless. There is nothing he lacks.

“That’s how it _should_ be,” Otabek repeats in a whisper, pressing his lips against Yuri’s forehead. “Your place isn’t here, it’s with your family, like my place is with mine. But I wish…” Otabek swallows the words, listening to the darkness that smells like horse and hay, to the rustling of the animals and Yuri’s breathing. He wants to set things right, while still harbouring a selfish wish that he doesn’t have to.

“But I’m glad you’ll be with me a little longer,” he finishes. “It’s enough.”


	12. Chapter 12

They are given food and return gifts for Otabek’s family before leaving. The weather is colder and overcast, but Yuri’s mood is instantly lifted when they leave the city behind. Yuri sings, first in an undertone, then out loud, and soon after it begins to snow.

“I guess that’s what I get for bringing home a snow spirit,” Otabek says, only half serious. The light snow is nothing to worry about.

“Бека,” Yuri says after he gets tired of singing. “Horse. Ride.” He beams at Otabek’s surprise of hearing those words, and he steers his horse closer to Otabek’s, gesturing at Otabek’s lap. “Ride.”

“You want to ride with me?” Otabek smiles even though his chest feels tight. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Yuri grins and bids Snow Cloud to stop, aiming more words at Otabek, asking him to do the same. When Otabek brings his horse to a halt, Yuri climbs over, settling in front of Otabek. “Yes. Yes,” Yuri repeats eagerly and makes a show of yawning and stretching before cuddling up against Otabek’s chest.

“So you just want to sleep?” Otabek snorts. “You’re taking advantage of the situation.”

“Yes,” Yuri confirms without hesitation.

“Are you going to say yes to everything even though you don’t know what I’m saying?” Otabek asks.

“Yes!”

“Well, I’m happy too,” Otabek admits. The ground isn’t frozen yet, so the oft-trafficked area around the town is a quagmire of mud, and it squelches underfoot as the horses move on. There’s no hurry. The light snow is pretty. It’s just the two of them and the occasional other traveller, although the amount of them thins out quickly as they move away from the town, towards northwest after the caravan the Elderman’s grandson had mentioned.

Although they have a purpose and a goal, it feels more like a pleasure ride to Otabek. It’s just the two of them, and Yuri takes care of entertainment by singing, while Otabek takes care of getting them where they’re going. Because the area is familiar to Otabek, his attention is occupied by his companion instead. He finds out he can interrupt the songs by nosing under the leather flap protecting the nape of Yuri’s neck and biting or just pressing his cold face there.

Later, when the tan and yellow stalks of the standing hay are the only contrasting colour to the grey and white of the snow and air, Otabek decides it’s time for them to take a rest. Even though they’re sticking close together, they both shiver with the cold of having sat still so long.

“Yura,” Otabek says, just by Yuri’s ear.

“Hmm?” Yuri makes a question noise.

“Let’s stop. It’s time to eat and let Burdock rest. The weather’s getting worse too.”

“Yes,” Yuri says very seriously, and even though Otabek is chilly on the outside, his heart is warm.

“I thought you’d say that.” Otabek nuzzles into Yuri’s hair, now damp with the falling snow. “I should just stop you from singing more,” he adds in a whisper. “I wouldn’t want the weather to get worse.”

Yuri makes a deeply convincing noise of assent and holds his hands over his nose, breathing some warmth into them.

“There’s some cliffs on the side of the lake,” Otabek continues his train of thought. “The visibility is bad, so I’m not sure where we are. Let’s just go closer to the water. It’s fine to stop. The caravan has probably had to stop earlier than us, so we’re still gaining.”

The hay becomes sparse and disappears as the ground becomes rocky under the hooves of the horses. Boulders appear suddenly from the mist and snow, their shapes and edges softened by the weather. Their presence lets Otabek know they’re going in the right direction, although Yuri resting his hand on Otabek’s thigh is doing its best to distract him.

There are more wooded areas near the water, as well as rockery. The boulders become cliffs with many cracks and shallow caves, and Otabek finds one of those for them to shelter in. The horses seem calm when they approach, but Otabek takes the time to scout out the wide and short cave to make sure nothing dangerous is inhabiting it.

“Come in.” He gestures for Yuri to lead the horses in. There’s enough space for the animals too, and there’s no reason to leave them out in the wet snowfall. “I’m going to get some wood,” Otabek adds as they make the horses comfortable. “I think we can have a little fire.”

Yuri listens with a tilted head, but mistakes Otabek speaking his thoughts out loud as an invitation of some sort and presses close again, his face up towards Otabek like a cat waiting for a treat. “Бека. Yes,” he says smugly.

“Ah.” Otabek doesn’t have the power to resist, so he lowers his face and nuzzles Yuri’s nose with his own, receiving a soft, purred chuckle in reward. “You’re very... appealing,” Otabek murmurs. “I’d enjoy caressing you very much, Yura, but I think we need a fire. Don’t you?”

Yuri wraps his arms around Otabek’s shoulders and pulls him down, touching his cold lips sweetly against Otabek’s similarly cold cheeks. He hums in pleasure under his breath; Otabek isn’t far from doing the same himself. He tightens his grasp on Yuri, forcing him up on his toes, and buries his face in the warm space between Yuri’s neck and the collar of his coat, while Yuri caresses his ear and says _horse_ under his breath.

“And I’m trying to send you home,” Otabek mutters, aching from head to toe with the thought. “But your place isn’t here.” The responsibility weighs heavy on him, placed on him both by Yuri reaching out to him at first meeting and Altynbek’s words. To Otabek it means he must do the best he can for the thing or person he’s responsible for, and the best thing for Yuri is to get where he wants to go.

“Nn,” Yuri sighs, stepping a leg between Otabek’s, touching him right where it aches most.

Otabek draws a shuddery breath, filling himself with Yuri’s the grass scent of spring. Immediate heat lances through him, the combined effect of Yuri’s closeness now and the memories of their previous entanglement. “Oh, Yura, you’re so- I wish I could-” Otabek squeezes Yuri until he objects with a grunt, and even then Otabek finds it difficult to step back.

“I’ll go find some wood,” Otabek mumbles, face now hot against the cold air, and his chest singed with heat when he sees Yuri’s similarly blushed complexion. “Stay here, Yura.”

But as he starts out, Yuri comes to follow, fastening his hat onto his head once again. “No,” Otabek says. “No, go back.”

“Бека?” Yuri questions, coming anyway.

“No, look after the horses.” Otabek takes Yuri by the shoulders and turns him around, pointing at the horses. “I’ll be right back.”

This time Yuri stays put, but with a frown. Otabek waves at him, although Yuri quickly becomes just a hazy figure in the snow. The innocuous work of walking around and finding some decent wooded shrubbery for wood that isn’t too damp both calms Otabek and warms him differently, but the thought of Yuri being cold and alone also makes him impatient. Not to mention the thought of how he could improve on that or how he could distract both of them if it was just warm enough to stay still for a moment.

The wet snow touching down on the boulders and on the leafless branches of the shrubs makes a faint ticking sound. The air is calm and just cold enough for snow to form but begin melting on the unfrozen ground. Otabek stays still for a moment, listening to the silence where even the sound of his breathing becomes loud.

In that landscape it’s easy to find serenity. Otabek tilts his thought-warmed face up towards the sky. Being with Yuri is enjoyable, more so than anything he’s experienced before. The attraction he feels is fiercer than any of the adolescent, indirect thoughts he’s entertained before in his life. But there’s also a sense of peace when he’s with Yuri, a cherished tranquility even with the excitement.

Otabek has never wanted for marriage. Women have only ever been mothers, aunts, and sisters, nothing else. Even when Janibek, the closest to him in age, had begun to show interest in them, Otabek had only felt a sense of obligation. But he also hadn’t been drawn to men previously, not beyond a hazy appreciation he’d never bothered to think about much.

Yuri, by virtue of being different, has drawn Otabek’s attention to all the things he’s only vaguely found attractive before, down to the very fact he’s not female. And that, if anything, sends confused desire surging through Otabek’s body, thinking back to their curious, mostly instinct-driven play in Otabek’s bed.

_Animals can’t deny their nature._

A scream slices open the belly of the calm, cold afternoon, and Otabek’s blurry, sensual thoughts scatter, and his hackles rise in response. It’s human, it’s _angry_ , and it’s definitely Yuri. Otabek abandons the burnables he’d collected and sprints across slippery snow back towards the cave. The nearer he gets, the more noise there is to muddy the tranquil afternoon. Men laughing crassly, horses snorting and neighing, and Yuri screaming again, like a furious animal wearing the throat of a human.

The ground in front of the cave is churned into a foul mess. Otabek slides onto his knees, stopping his momentum on a boulder to peer at the scene. He has his long knife and a small axe for cutting the firewood; Burdock is carrying the rest of his equipment. He can’t see Yuri through the unfamiliar horses and half a dozen men in ragged furs. They talk in a few different languages, mainly communicating with the trade dialect common to the Seven Rivers area. Nothing about them says innocent travellers.

Another laugh from the men and Yuri raising his voice in protest are enough to stir Otabek forwards. He barrels past the horses and men, finding Yuri backed away in the corner of the cave, but standing protectively in front of Snow Cloud and Burdock. The biggest man of the invading group is holding onto Yuri’s arm with a massive hand. Yuri’s size makes the man seem even larger in comparison, and Yuri’s coat flaps open as though the fastenings had been torn open, including the gifted clasp. An unknown fire poisons Otabek’s blood at the sight.

“Let go!” Otabek forces himself between Yuri and the man.

“Ahh.” The man’s face turns into a tooth-revealing smile. “The little bird has an owner,” he says with a heavy accent that Otabek can’t quite place. His facial features are unfamiliar too. The men guffaw, and Otabek grows more uneasy.

“What do you want?” he says. Yuri grabs onto his belt, staying behind him.

“Your horses, your things,” the man replies, then strokes his beard, glancing at his men with overacted cunning. “And the little bird in my furs.”

Otabek is glad Yuri doesn’t understand the language. The men seem to understand fine, prompting them to laugh cruelly and act out other gestures of rudeness. Otabek holds his arm behind himself, trying to block Yuri from their sight even more.

“The little bird is not female,” he says.

The man peeks at Yuri over Otabek’s shoulder. “Is that so?” he says. “That’s a boy?” He glances at his men again, shifting his stance and his tone into an insincere smile. “Fellow travellers. Let’s drink then.”

The change in attitude and intention doesn’t sit well with Otabek, but neither had the previous situation. There isn’t a way out for them like this.

“Drink and play!” The man claps his hands together. He says something in a different language, and the men murmur in agreement, moving to make camp in the little cave. Various skins and even clay bottles of strong-smelling liquid come out and are shared.

Their attention lags enough for Otabek to be able to turn to Yuri and make sure he’s all right. Yuri stares past him at the men, eyes wide, but more determined than frightened. The same face he’d had on when meeting with Otabek the first time, as though he’s already been through worse. He barely reacts as Otabek does his coat up again, although he finds the silver clasp has been broken, only one side of it clinging to the edge of Yuri’s coat. It makes his hands shake.

The group of rough men set up a fire and places to sit with surprising efficiency. They keep talking to each other with Otabek able to catch a few words here and there, mentioning _the bird_ and _wagers_. They fill the air with the smell of unwashed clothes and bodies and alcohol. The leader pulls out a fancy, thin pipe and lights it with a twig from the fire.

“Sit, sit,” he invites Otabek and Yuri, patting a bedroll with a smug smile under his beard. “Drink and play.” A Nine Holes board is produced and set on the leathers as well. “Two out of three games. You win, you keep yours. I win, I take yours. Fair enough?” The men around him snort and laugh.

“...Fair enough,” Otabek agrees, seeing no way out of it. The men could easily overpower them. The most fortunate outcome in that situation would be for Otabek to be able to hold them off just long enough to send Yuri away. He can’t trust this offer either, but it might give him some time to think.

Otabek takes a seat in front of the leader, and Yuri sits behind him. They’re offered one of the skins to drink from, and even the small sip Otabek has burns his throat and sends water out from his eyes and nose. Yuri fares little better. The men find it highly amusing.

“The guest can start,” the leader says, after setting up the board with bone markers, and gestures magnanimously at Otabek, although his expression remains mocking.

The starting set is always the same, and Otabek picks up his chosen hand to distribute the markers further. Yuri peers over his shoulder at the game. The other men have set up games of their own, but one played with dice, which they boisterously roll between themselves.

Nine Holes is an easy game to learn but a difficult one to master. A painful, cold sweat gathers on Otabek’s skin, soaking through his undershirt as the game advances. His hand shakes picking up the markers, and some of them end up falling off the board. Yuri gathers them and distributes them, peering at the game past Otabek. On the next turn, when Otabek hesitates, he points at the set he wants Otabek to pick up.

“Steel your nerve,” The Leader chuckles and offers the skin of foul wine to Otabek once more. The sip Otabek takes is only for show, but the Leader’s attention is on Yuri as he pulls his big fingers through his beard. “Откуда вы?” he asks, and Yuri goes stiff, not answering with words, but a long hiss.

“Котенок,” the Leader says in a taunting tone, to which Yuri snarls.

“Don’t talk to him,” Otabek says, knowing he’s in a weak position to make demands, but Yuri’s expression is one of fury rather than fear. He clutches at the back of Otabek’s coat, collecting his legs under himself as if to spring forwards, but Otabek grabs his arm and forces him to stay still.

The men burst out laughing, stealing Otabek’s attention. He’s not sure what they’re laughing at, but it sounds foreboding. And with that, the first game ends in the Leader’s victory.

“Too bad,” the Leader laments, gathering the markers on his side, while Yuri reaches to do the same for Otabek’s side.

This time it’s Yuri who takes position in front of the board, his face set in an absolute storm. The Leader is amused and nods at him. Otabek attempts to follow the game, but his thoughts wander. The men are drinking freely in the midst of their own game, becoming louder. Burdock and Snow Cloud are stepping nervously in the corner of the cave, effectively blocked from going out by the group of men.

Outside the cave, the snow has turned to heavy rain, and despite the time of day, the sky darkens. The fire does little to make Otabek comfortable. The ghost of heat barely touches him, and the flames flickering in the corner of his eye are a distraction. The side away from the fire is freezing, and his hands won’t stop shaking.

If he could get Yuri on one of the horses, he might have a chance. The men are big and their horses are weighed down with heavy supplies, so it would be possible to simply outrun them. Otabek knows the region; they could make it back to town in a few hours.

“The little bird is good,” the Leader says.

Under Yuri’s deft fingers, the markers rattle quickly into the holes, stacking the board in his favour. He plays quickly and without fear, glaring at the Leader after each turn. He doesn’t react to the men being loud or disruptive, focusing only on the game. In the end, Yuri’s victory is signalled by a displeased click of the tongue from the Leader.

There’s a brief conversation between the Leader and his men while the board is set up again. Then he makes a show of settling himself in even more comfortably, smoothing his beard and the looped braids on either side of his head, making sure the silver fastenings are showing. His expression isn’t happy, but it’s a smile as he addresses Yuri in the Rus tongue, making Yuri grimace and flinch while the men laugh again. Two of them have laid down on their bedrolls, but the rest are still playing dice.

“The deciding game is yours to play,” the Leader tells Otabek.

This time Yuri’s face is drawn in fear, and that, more than anything, worries Otabek. But there’s nothing he can do except play the game, and that tastes bitter, like apple seeds. Even if he wins, they won’t be let go.

The dull clicking of the markers against the wooden board and each other becomes louds. The men are quiet this time, watching. The horses are quiet, and the rain is slowing down to errant drops. The fire pops in damp wood occasionally, and the Leader’s wineskin sloshes as he raises it to his lips, drinking in audible gulps. The more pleasant smells of smoke, animals, and wet earth mix with the odour of unwashed clothing and alcohol.

Then, the board clears, and the markers are counted, bringing Otabek a slim victory. His heartbeat blankets all other sounds as he gets up, dragging Yuri along. The Leader hasn’t lifted his eyes off the board yet.

“Can’t be helped,” the Leaders says, looking up.

Otabek’s worry for Yuri and the horses blinds him to the strike coming from behind. His vision goes black at the edges, but when he grunts and almost falls, Yuri attempts to rouse him, shouting angrily.

Short, painful gasps and a rushing sound overlap the far-away screams of a horse. The ground thrums with a storm of hooves. Something warm oozes and spreads against his scalp in contrast to the cold wetness everywhere else. Yuri screams too, and Otabek reaches out blindly towards his voice. A blunt object strikes the side of his head from above, and the light disappears.


	13. Chapter 13

Whispers come and go. Cold comes and goes. Light comes and goes.

No one speaks; the whispering is the rain touching down all around Otabek. Looking up at the sky makes it seem like he’s falling, and disorientation makes it hard to concentrate. Otabek rolls onto his side and retches into the cold mud that’s seeping through his clothes.

The movement makes his head spin, and he feels something come loose on his scalp, followed by the hot flow of blood and searing pain. He falls back into the mud until the pain on the side of his head abates and his memory seeps back.

“Yura,” he gasps, yanking his head up again to scan his surroundings, only to have his vision darken and the nausea and pain return full force. The strange, raw noise is his breath, sawing in and out of him in gasps and gags.

The darkness doesn’t recede, but bit by bit, Otabek swallows the nausea. He pushes himself up on his hands and knees, then onto shaky legs. It’s dark because it’s night. His hands and feet are numb with cold, and he’s wet with mud and rain. His mind is filled with fog. _Yura_.

Boulders rise up around him, revealed in the faintest of outlines of wet black against the slightly lighter colour of the clouded sky. The dripping of water on empty branches and stone and mud creates a wall of noise. The passage of time is difficult to estimate, but it had already been dark outside the cave when- _Yura_. Otabek falls to his knees against a boulder and tries to catch on to the spinning images in his head.

The cave. The game. The Leader. A broken silver clasp. _Yura_.

The men had horses and drink. They’d been loud, drunken. It’s dark. Even though the thought of going after the horses is distasteful to Otabek, but as he shivers and is sick in the mud, Otabek realises he’s alone and weak, left without his knife, his horse, or other supplies, and he has no choice. He doesn’t have his family; he doesn’t even have much to fight with. To weaken the men, his best bet will be to aim at their horses.

The thought of family brings guilt, but it’s nothing compared to the responsibility he feels over Yuri’s life. He should go get help, but the way is too long. In town, who would he ask? And even if someone agreed to help, by the time they’d get back here, the men would be gone. Yuri would be gone too.

Thoughts run in circles inside Otabek’s head, and they’re hard to catch. He forces himself up, to stagger along the boulders, blindly looking for a way back, and just as the dizzying darkness engulfs him again, he’s shocked back into consciousness by a scream. It’s not that far away, vibrating over the distance, up and down. Yuri must be fighting back. The rain seems to turn to snow.

The cold air carries more than just the snow; it has the smell of smoke. And in the dark, the red glow of the dying campfire is easily visible between the moving shadows of the horses. It dyes the specks of sleet red too, and paints everything with gleaming outlines. They hadn’t even dragged Otabek very far from the cave. They’ve already written him off, leaving him like that.

They’ve set up little lean-tos outside the cave, similar to what Otabek’s family uses during the summer. The smell of smoke becomes mixed with the smell of horses and their droppings, and then underlying that is the scent of damp clothes and unwashed bodies. Wet leather and fur. Some sort of food. Otabek lies close by, watching and waiting. The noises of the horses cover whatever sounds he might make. Two men talk in an undertone, squatting around the fire.

What’s left of the steppe grasses lie mostly flat between him and the camp. He presses himself down behind a boulder’s edge, trying to measure the distance from his hiding place to the cave.

_It’s dark. They’re blinded by the fire. I can cut the horses free… I just have to crawl there_.

Otabek presses his face against the cold ground, trying to clear his mind. It’s so cold his fingers and toes hurt, and his breath creates little clouds. Then the silence is broken by Yuri raising his voice, but he’s immediately muffled, although Otabek thinks he can hear the sounds of struggle. It’s enough to push his doubts aside. He still has his eating knife, hanging from his belt under his coat.

Horses are easy to frighten. Get one and they all go. The sound of the snapping fire, the horses, and the slow, steady dripping of the water-snow hides the sound of Otabek inching his way closer. He can’t see into the dark cave, but the occasional sound from inside and the crass chuckles of the two men by the fire make his nausea return. The red tinge to his world is a combination of firelight, blood, and helpless rage.

He crawls through the remains of grass and shrubs to get to the horses, sticking to the shadows by the boulders. The blade on his eating knife won’t do much damage to a horse, but he still feels sorry for the animal he chooses at random, stabbing it in the flank, so it screams and rears up. The horse rushes into the camp, frightening itself and the others even more by trampling the fire and the lean-tos, with the men resting inside. Otabek has to wound a second horse, but by then the animals are confused and terrified, ignoring the bandits trying to stop them.

There’s enough of a lip on the boulder nearest to the cave to cover Otabek, but he still freezes when the light and shadows move over him as the camp erupts in chaos. He presses himself against the boulder and tries to still his shaking limbs. The noise of the animals and men bounces between the rocks, loud and discordant. The fur-embiggened figure of the Leader appears at the mouth of the cave. His drunkenness becomes obvious when something impacts with him from behind, pushing him off-balance. The two struggle and fall and roll, and their grunts of effort are low and vicious. A blade with a gemmed hilt sparkles in the leftover light of the campfire. The sickly sweet smell of grain alcohol spreads in the air.

The decorated, ceremonial dagger still holds an edge. Enough to wound, maybe enough to kill. Yuri’s light hair flashes against a clearing sky, almost as bright as the metal. Otabek rushes up and at the grappling figures.

Three flailing bodies in the dark: one big and swaddled in foreign furs, one slight and nearly undressed, and the last belonging to Otabek, although barely under his control. The gifted knife sinks into the foul furs so many times it becomes dull with blood, guided with a fury Otabek hasn’t seen before.

“Yura!” he whispers. “Yura, stop!” He holds Yuri’s arms down, repeating his name until Yuri stops struggling. Their harsh breath is joined by the ragged one from the man on the ground, gurgling. His hands grasp at them, and Otabek falls backwards, trying to get away, Yuri clutched against his chest.

“Yura, shh, Yura. Yura,” Otabek repeats, dragging him away. The longer they linger, the worse. The night tastes of blood and ash as he fights to breathe through the uncontrollable shivering of his body.

“Бека,” Yuri sobs. He stumbles because his feet are tied together. The fallen man gurgles more loudly, and two of the other men are returning to the camp.

Otabek grabs his eating knife again and hacks at the bindings around Yuri’s legs blindly. Even as light as Yuri is, Otabek is in no condition to carry him across the steppe at night while fleeing. He can barely see from the fearful sweat in his eyes and the dark of the night, but the ties loosen, and Yuri kicks his legs to be rid of them.

Yuri’s fast, terrified gasps of breath echo in Otabek’s ears. He presses the shivering Yuri to the ground. “Hold on to me,” he says, making sure Yuri has a grasp on his belt. It makes moving awkward, but they scuttle away, dragging a lean-to’s hide covering along and trying to balance the need to get away with the need to be not found out.

The utter dark of a cloudy night slowly gives way to a starlit sky. The light remains meagre but along with the uneven terrain helps hide Otabek and Yuri’s flight. Otabek has to press his hand over Yuri’s mouth to stop the sound of his chattering teeth from giving them away.

The men become louder when they find their fallen comrade and discover their captive missing. For a long while, Otabek is afraid to make a move. They’re wedged in the shadow of a shallow and empty waterway, under a crumbling overhang that’s held together by grass roots, between two boulders leaning on each other. The hide shelters them, providing a tiny amount of warmth as well as making them a more indistinguishable shape in the dark.

It’s so cold Otabek’s muscles are locking up, past the stage of shivering. Yuri is even worse off, having been stripped of his outer clothes.

“Yura, l-look,” Otabek whispers stiffly, pointing at the stars, trying to come up with something to comfort his snow cat cub. “The Bear and the Guardian of the Bear. They’re walking across the sky l-like always.”

Yuri whimpers but looks up. The whites of his eyes show all around as he desperately tries to search out the patterns Otabek is drawing with his unsteady finger. But when the noise of the men looking for Yuri draws closer, Otabek curls up around him, trying to protect as much of him as possible while they wait, and then, slowly, eventually, move again.

As they progress, they go from elbows and knees to walking in a crouch, to finally walking upright, trying to cover as much distance as possible. The stars and the half-moon give just enough light to see a blue outline, but Otabek isn’t able to navigate by landmarks nor stars, merely hurrying in a direction away from the maze of boulders and the cave. He hopes both Burdock and Snow Cloud have managed to flee in the middle of the confusion. They know their way home, and maybe when they get there, his family will try to look for them, no matter how useless that’ll turn out to be.

“Б-Бека,” Yuri stutters, barely recognisable as words. He’s stiff and cold, and Otabek hurts, both physically and mentally. He doesn’t have the energy to speak, but he takes off his outer coat and strips off of his heavy, woollen middle layer, pushing it over Yuri’s head to share whatever warmth there is. His head pounds. He hadn’t thought of sharing his clothes with Yuri sooner.

“Stay here,” Otabek tells him, bundling him up in the hide and pressing him into the ground. He climbs out of the dip in the land, the course of the old waterway, and tries to whistle. His first two tries barely make a sound, but the third produces the piercing tone his family uses for summoning their horses. He repeats the three up-and-down sound twice more, then joins Yuri under the hide, huddling together with him to wait for the sound of hooves.

~

It’s cold and uncomfortable. Something is making a rattling sound. Something is pressed against Otabek’s chest, shaking. It smells like spring, even though it’s freezing.

Otabek’s left eye is crusted shut. The right one opens to darkness. It feels like he’s in a cocoon, wrapped up in something heavy, but underneath him is just damp ground. So then the clattering, shaking thing must be Yuri.

“Yura!” Otabek croaks, sitting up. The hide cover slides off him and reveals the blue twilight of very early morning on the steppes. His breath goes out in a long, white plume. Yuri curls up tighter, whimpering. His face is very pale and splattered with dark spots. His lips are almost as white as his cheeks.

Otabek gathers him up close, trying to share what warmth he can. There’s very little of it left, and he’s worried the way Yuri is trembling spells trouble. His left eye stays shut, but he tries to scan the surroundings for any landmarks or signs of the men that had captured Yuri. He isn’t quite sure where they are, but heading towards east should take them back towards the town. Still, it’s more likely they’ll run into the bandits in that direction.

Rousing Yuri takes some time, and he’s sleepy and unresponsive even when his eyes open, staring blankly at Otabek, who cuddles him close and whispers nonsense promises to him. Yuri reacts slowly, but exclaims over the dried blood on Otabek’s face, scratching away rust-coloured flakes.

“I n-need you to wait,” Otabek says, pressing his cracked and stiff lips to Yuri’s forehead. He leaves Yuri in the hide again and crawls over the edge of the waterway to look around. The lightening sky reveals an unchanged steppe under an unfeeling sky. In the east, a wan yellow is warming up the horizon, but the west remains dark. Still, against that endless backdrop, he spots the silhouette of three horses grazing on the shrubbery. Otabek goes limp in relief, and the water squeezing out from his eyes manages to loosen the blood and dirt from his left eye enough to open it. He whistles again when he’s gathered his breath, and Burdock neighs in response, turning to trot over. Both Snow Cloud and the third horse follow.

“Yura,” Otabek calls out hoarsely. “It’s fine now.” It’s better, at the very least. The horses are still carrying most of the leftover gear: bedrolls, waterskins, food. The third one is one of the bandits’ horses.

Otabek clings to Burdock until he’s able to move again. He takes one of the waterskins and rinses his eye, then drinks it empty. The water is cold, but not quite frozen. He grabs the skin from Snow Cloud and slides down the dry riverbed to rouse Yuri to drink.

The water stirs Yuri a little, at least enough to for him to make what-noises and begin shivering again. Otabek rubs Yuri’s hands between his own, taking off remnants of dried blood. His or the Leader’s, he doesn’t know. Yuri seems unharmed. Shocked and freezing, but unharmed. Otabek takes down one of the bedrolls and rips and cuts it apart to fashion a wearable husk for Yuri. He abandons the hide from the lean-to in the ditch and helps Yuri up on Snow Cloud. Otabek follows, gathering both the reins and Yuri between his arms.

The vastness of the land and the sky, both running to meet each other at the horizon, squeezes Otabek into nothingness. The thought—and feeling—of being alone is new to him. They’re as small and insignificant on the steppe as a grain of sand. Otabek lowers his gaze from the sky he has always loved, cowed by its size, and stares forwards between Snow Cloud’s ears, using them to frame the small bit of landscape he can deal with.

The fading stars in the horizon flicker and turn into lanterns hanging off roofed, colourful carts. At first it’s just a faraway glimpse between the sky and the sea of grasses, fading in and out of Otabek’s hazy vision. He stares, too cold and slow to really react until the faint smell of wood smoke cuts through the smell of blood and frost.

“Yura.” He shakes Yuri gently, heart pumping faster as though its melting. “Look.” He points.

He doesn’t know if Yuri is even awake until Yuri makes a question noise, then inhales sharply and sits up. His shivers renew with even more force, and his shoulders become jagged with tension. Otabek pulls Yuri tighter against himself.

“We have to go,” he murmurs into Yuri’s ear, getting more shivers in return. “We need the help, whoever they are.” The words are mostly to comfort himself as he urges Snow Cloud into a brisk walk towards the encampment. They’re in desperate need of rest and warmth and safety and something to put the size of the steppe back into its normal place. Yuri doesn’t fight him, but his breathing becomes harsher and his body is wracked with shaking as they draw near.

Otabek slides off the horse, grimacing as he stumbles over tussocks of standing hay, every step jarring the bumps on his head. He clings to the saddle as he walks his small entourage close enough to call out to the few people he sees moving around between the carts. Their lookouts must have seen them coming far off.

“Hello.” Otabek clears his throat and attempts a louder voice, waving. “Hello!”

He sways on his feet, eyes going in and out of focus, as they’re approached. He doesn’t understand the language they speak, although it sounds familiar, so he’s surprised when Yuri speaks. Yuri’s voice is cracked and tired, and Otabek clutches onto the stirrup, onto Yuri’s leg, wanting these people to at least take Yuri in.

The wet cold seeps in through the cloth and leather of his trousers, alerting Otabek to the fact he’s slumped onto his knees on the ground. He feels the arms that wrap around him and hears the sound of Yuri’s voice, but from a distance. The growing daylight becomes a quickly receding spot in his eyes, crowded out by the dark.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s not the sky that greets Otabek’s eyes when he next opens them. It’s a ceiling, and it’s warmth. Such warmth that it’s becoming unbearable. There’s a weight on top of him. A slumped over, filthy pile of rags and muddy hair streaked with pale yellow like winter sunshine.

But the ceiling is unfamiliar. It curves rigidly, not like the top of a yurt. It’s wooden and painted, and comes down the sides in two straight walls covered in woven tapestries of animals and plants. The source of light is a surprise: see-through, bright squares on both walls. It’s not intestine stretched and dried, but something even more transparent. Almost like clear ice.

The source of warmth is a small stove at his feet. Or rather, he is lying on the floor of one of the carts, taking up almost the whole length of it. The doorway is covered with a heavy felted drape, and unfamiliar speech filters through it. Otabek finds that lifting his arm takes effort, but he moves it to stroke the matted blond hair.

“Yura,” he croaks, tongue unwilling to move.

Yuri sits up at once, still pale and filthy, but with a blush of warmth across his cheeks and lips that make Otabek swallow back relief and more. He’s clutching the end of Otabek’s braid and furiously blinks away his sleep, although his eyes are red-rimmed and sunken.

“Sorry I woke you,” Otabek murmurs, running the backs of his fingers against Yuri’s cheek. Yuri questions him in return, reaching up to pat Otabek’s head—or rather, the bandage around his head.

“I’ll be fine,” Otabek promises without any knowledge of the situation. “Come here.” He holds out his arm, and Yuri wiggles in, pushing his face against the underside of Otabek’s jaw. “Are _you_ okay?” Otabek asks, knowing he won’t have his answer. Yuri is alive and warm, and that should be enough, but the memory of the Leader’s vulgar interest doesn’t leave him.

With the heat taking away the immediate problem of being cold, and the enclosed space providing safety, Otabek’s bashed-in head begins to throb with insistence he can’t ignore. His body is stiff, and it’s difficult to keep stroking Yuri’s hair. He can vaguely hear people talking outside the wagon, but not until a woman peels aside the drape hung in the doorway, does Otabek really understand there are other people there.

“Ahem,” the woman says. “Are you awake?” Yuri shuffles off Otabek as the woman looks in on them. “Tea? чай?” She has a long, grey braid, and her features are familiar to Otabek—dark almond-shaped eyes and a flat, round face.

She doesn’t wait for their reply, but climbs in, holding a tray that carries two steaming cups. “My name is Begaim,” she says, placing the tray next to Otabek on the floor. She folds her legs under herself and sits down. Her attire isn’t familiar to Otabek at all, with a full skirt and an embroidered vest under a fur-lined coat.

“Otabek, son of Altynbek, son of Ashirbek, son of-” He stops the automatic litany when she raises her hand. She smiles, revealing gapped teeth.

“Say thank you, Otabek,” she instructs and gestures at the tea.

“...Thank you,” Otabek repeats slowly. Yuri helps him sit up and to receive a cup of tea, although he has to bite back a groan to do so.

“Your companion has made you two horses poorer,” Begaim says, watching them but not offering to assist. “He yelled at us until we agreed to help you.”

Yuri blows into the tea, not daintily, but with a frown settling over his brows as he glares at Begaim over the cup, then speaks at length, where it becomes obvious his earlier calmness was just a front. Begaim replies.

“You speak Rus?” Otabek interrupts her.

“Yes,” she looks at him. “You make an odd couple, then, if you don’t.”

“I don’t,” Otabek confirms. “Is- Can you ask him if he’s... unhurt?”

“He seems fine,” Begaim says but directs a question at Yuri.

Yuri looks at Otabek, then at her, then Otabek again, and replies carefully.

“He says the bandits didn’t hurt him,” Begaim translates. “So it was bandits. We were warned there might be some outside Seven Rivers. It seems like they come out this time of the year, then. Going after summer-fattened traders like foxes after rabbits.”

Otabek hides his relief in drinking the tea. Now, suddenly graced with the possibility of asking Yuri everything he’s wished to know, Otabek can’t think of anything to say. He watches Yuri from the corner of his eye. The smooth cheek that’s marred by a scrape and blood that’s flaking off, the lashes that are very pale against the red-rimmed eyes, and how unnatural the pink of his tongue is when he sticks it out after burning it on the tea.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” Otabek says slowly.

“That seems like a waste of time,” Begaim replies. “You should say thank you.” She turns towards Yuri and speaks anyway, although Otabek can tell only that her tone is impatient and her explanation seems longer than required.

Yuri doesn’t look happy, either. His shoulders are slumped, and he stares at his shoes, pushing one toe of his boots over the other. He makes noises of acknowledgement at her, and Otabek feels the distance between them more than ever, with someone there who is proof that all their communication so far has been based on nothing but wishful thinking.

“We’ve agreed,” Begaim says then, turning back to Otabek. “For the two horses and the silver in your saddlebags, we’ll take him with us and help you along your way.”

“What? He’s-” Otabek’s tea splashes over the edge of his cup, uncomfortably warm on his skin, as he turns to look at Yuri. “Yura?”

“He says he has to get home,” Begaim continues, picking on the cloth of her skirt. “He says he has family he needs to see. The weather’s still passable, but the season wears on,” she adds. “You understand that, don’t you? We’d like to be on our way as soon as possible.”

“Yes, I understand,” Otabek says, placing the cup back on the tray. Yuri is watching him with his mouth pursed and brows drawn together. “Yura?” Otabek says again. “Can you tell him I understand?” he asks, trying to hide the tremors in his hands and voice.

She speaks, but Yuri doesn’t look at her. He stares at Otabek, nodding when she’s done as if to confirm everything. Then he seems to change his mind and turns to Begaim, speaking with haste and making obvious pleas, to which she keeps shaking her head and making obvious no-noises. She finally relents, although not gracefully at all.

“He wishes you to come with him,” she says. She seems to want to add something, but clenches her jaw.

Yuri touches Otabek’s hand. “Бека?”

“I don’t think I-” The sight of Yuri’s lower lip and chin quivering make it hard to get the words out. “Can I travel with you for a few days?” He glances at Begaim, meaning the words to her.

“A few days is fine,” she says. “We’d like to resume our journey today. We already lost yesterday because of the snow and most of this morning because of you.” She gives Yuri a look. “But we’ve agreed to provision you for your journey back. Whatever you need. It’s preferable than you staying. Outsiders are trouble.”

“...Thank you,” Otabek says, swallowing the bitter reality along with the tea. Her frankness spells out his choices clearly, and an end to his responsibilities. “When I can ride, I’ll go back. I’ll just need some food and a bedroll. A blade.”

“You don’t ask for much,” Begaim says, and Otabek can’t tell if she’s appreciative or annoyed. “How many days’ worth of food do you need?”

“Three should be enough.”

She shakes her head at Yuri and speaks a few short words. Yuri’s face twists and he drops his head, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

“Yes,” he says, muffled. “Yes, Бека.”

“You should rest, then,” Begaim says, getting up and dusting her skirt.

“Thank you,” Otabek says quietly, as she seems to be waiting for that. She smiles again, although it doesn’t reach her eyes, then steps out of the cart, raising her voice at someone outside.

As soon as the drape falls shut, Yuri shuffles closer to Otabek and cuddles under his arm. He keeps repeating a phrase, with slight variation in the words and tone he uses. Otabek doesn’t have to know the language to guess the meaning.

He wants to say sorry. “Thank you,” he says instead.

~

During the few days Otabek spends with the caravan, he finds out Yuri had travelled to the far, far East as an apprentice trader and had then received word that a civil war had broken out at home, and that both his father and grandfather had died, leaving his mother unable to support herself. There are details Otabek doesn’t understand because surely Yuri’s mother has her livestock to depend on, but he hasn’t got the energy to dwell on them.

During those days, Otabek also begins to understand how alienating it is to hear nothing but a foreign language and see only foreign customs. The caravan consists mostly of Rus traders, and things that seem familiar to Yuri. Begaim is the wife of one trader, travelling with them as an interpreter. Her presence is two-edged; she is someone who can finally translate what Yuri says but only does it seemingly against her will, and she is also someone who seems the least happy to have Otabek with the group.

After a day’s rest, Yuri integrates himself into the duties of the caravan with the same determination he’d reached out to Otabek. After everything that has happened, Yuri working so hard makes its obvious to Otabek just how much he wants to return home. And it gives Otabek’s selfish desires no space. He’s not wanted to _own_ anything or anyone before.

The moment of separation comes when Otabek realises he’s becoming increasingly unfamiliar with the terrain and increasingly aware of the traders’ dislike for him. On the morning of his third day with them, he embraces Yuri in the lee of a wagon, hidden from the gazes of the others. There are no words to exchange; they both know the meaning of it.

Yuri, who looks foreign in the clothes he’s borrowed from the traders, has tear tracks down his face, and Otabek tries to wipe them away with his hands, with his mouth, tasting salt and bitterness. Yuri caresses his ear, repeating the words for _good boy_ in his tongue. When Otabek rides away, the tears he tastes are his own.

The day has only just begun but both he and Burdock are tired.

Otabek feels it in his bones and in his mount’s steps and resolves to make the day a short one. Still, he urges the horse on top of the incline before he stops to look. The sky is bright where he is with sunlight lancing down in shafts, as though the caravan is pulling the clouds along with it, travelling northwards. The brightly painted sides of the carts make them look like something a child would play with, and as though they could be picked up from the landscape.

Burdock steps around, and Otabek leans forwards to pat his neck, scanning the horizon. The southern and eastern sides are jagged with mountains, but the west and the north spread out endlessly, with the last remains of the summer’s grass following the wind in waves now that the snow is gone. The summer birds and the autumn’s cicadas are gone too, leaving Otabek alone on the steppe.

The wind and the bright sky bring more tears to Otabek’s eyes as he squints against them. Despite the sun, the wind is cold, and it bites through his ragged clothes, and the light hurts more than just his eyes. But he still can’t go. He watches the caravan creep across the mottled land, taking away something he would’ve liked to have kept, but had no right to.

He leans forwards, hugging Burdock’s neck. “Just us two, Burr,” he sighs.

He’s been on his own a lot, but never explicitly alone. His family had always been just a short ride away, travelling alongside him. The steppes make distances look short too, because there’s little change in the land. But one can ride and ride and ride, and the distance doesn’t diminish at all. There’s only a few steps’ difference between immediate closeness and vastly faraway. Being alone, and not being alone.

“Let’s go home,” Otabek says.

~

Eyinzhu is weaving a horsehair decoration to make a belt by the open door of her yurt. When Otabek dismounts, she looks up. Her face is strained.

“You said a few days,” she accuses, her fingers and body stilling as she takes in Otabek’s condition.

“I’m sorry, mom,” Otabek apologises obediently. It’s been almost nine days since he left with Yuri.

Eyinzhu shoves her work aside and rushes to his side, a scowl twisting her face. “You’re taking me to an early grave, Beka. You’re such a troublesome child.” She touches his chest, his cheeks, the dirty bandage covering his forehead. “Or am I supposed to bury my own child first?”

“I’m sorry,” Otabek repeats, and when she draws him into her arms, the hot, exhausted tears come, rising from the tightly wound knot in Otabek’s chest.

“Was the trip a success?” she asks, stroking the back of his head, rocking him like she must have done when he was small. She’s strong, and her voice wavers only a little. “I see the boy is not with you. Nor is my Snow Cloud.”

“I’m s-” Otabek chokes on the words, and she squeezes him a little harder.

“I see,” she says. “Hush now, my light. Come inside, and let me look at you.”


	15. Chapter 15

The steppe and the horses remain unchanged, but the family changes. Dilraba gives birth to a son, a little brother Otabek gets to hold for a few minutes, and Janibek marries at the end of the winter. Both he and his new bride are young, but Janibek has always been proud and one to go for what he wants. Even though Eyinzhu often sighs while looking at Otabek in her home, she no longer speaks of finding a wife for him.

The family occasions are ones of joy, and riding in the competitions and games of skill that are held for the sake of celebration gives Otabek momentary calm. That fine control of one’s mount isn’t something that can be done with a troubled mind. There’s freedom in concentration.

There’s also freedom in setting out to the summer pastures after being bound still by snow and darkness during the winter. Otabek’s heart skips a beat when the hears the familiar yowls of lynxes in heat during the spring nights, and it pounds painfully hard the first time he sleeps alone by the horses, watching the Bear and the Guardian of the Bear march across the sky.

“I wonder what stray thing your son will pick up this year,” Eyinzhu says to Altynbek one late spring evening. To help with the two small children, she has been sharing accommodations with Dilraba this year, and Otabek is with them when he’s not with the horses, as is his father.

“I hope not a predator this time,” Altynbek says, rocking his youngest son in the crook of his arm while Dilraba feeds Sarnai.

“I would rather a bear cub than a human again,” Eyinzhu replies. She’s mending the torn edge of a felt panel from their yurt. It’s already dark, but she can do it by feel when the firelight is not enough.

“We’ll have three foals soon,” Altynbek says. “Otabek will be in charge of them.”

How does the boy with such a need to nurse things not have children of his own?” Eyinzhu sighs. “I wanted grandchildren.”

“Mom, you do have grandchildren,” Otabek says. Kireybek is already a family man with two children.

“Yes, yes,” Eyinzhu sighs and looks up at him with weary acceptance. “Just none from you.”

Otabek doesn’t have much to say in response or objection. He takes Gerenbek from his father and cradles the baby in a leather hammock between his crossed legs. Babies are cute, but not as cute as baby animals. It’s not something to be said out loud, so he watches his littlest brother obediently so his father can help with the fussing Sarnai.

“Some things I can’t leave behind,” he murmurs, letting the baby grab at his fingers.

“Let’s hope this year brings none of those, hmm, my light?” Eyinzhu adds.

The foals, born in rapid succession during a stressful three-week period, are all healthy, and having to take responsibility for them chases away the remnants of Otabek’s free time. It also ties him close to the herd, not outriding like the previous year. It doesn’t allow him the opportunity to find more strays, animal or otherwise.

But now, even with his family there, and the horses to mind, a sense of aloneness sometimes creeps up on him like a cold hand against the back of his neck. His head buzzes and an uncomfortable sweat gathers on his body as he stands paralysed under the endless sky, vanishing as the steppe stretches out. Clouds are somehow the worst. Even the sheep-like summer clouds, moving swiftly and dappling the grass and the dirt with sun and shadow in turns, make the immense size of the sky obvious. The clear night skies often make him feel like he’s falling.

“There’s the Guardian of the Bear, the Big Bear, and the Little Bear,” Otabek points out the constellations to his younger siblings and cousins one summer night. Being the oldest unmarried son sometimes puts him in the position of taking care of the children, but it isn’t something he dislikes because it takes his mind off the emptiness of both the land and his self.

“I don’t see a bear,” Sarnai says. She, and the slightly older Suymbek and Aigerim all peer up at the sky with varying degrees of interest.

“Do you see the big star?” Ulyrau asks them. “You have to follow that to find the bear.”

_The North Star_ , Otabek thinks, staring at the single, shining point. _You have to follow that to go north._

“There’s too many stars,” Sarnai complains. “Why’s a bear up there?”

“There’s no bear!” Suyumbek declares.

Otabek leans back on his hands, taking his focus off the North Star, and looks up at the rest of the endless lights in the sky. It’s warm even during the night now, and the breeze carries the scent of dust and grass like always. The children chatter around him, discussing the possibility of flying bears. “You can also call them the Mother, Father, and Child,” he says. “The Big Bear used to live between the earth and the sky, just like we do.”

_Беar_ , Otabek hears Yuri’s accented version of the word even as he speaks.

“Bear goes _brrr_ ,” Sarnai says, tugging at Otabek’s leg.

“You’re right,” Otabek agrees.

“A bear goes _grrr_ ,” Suyumbek mutters, affronted. None of them have seen a bear.

“The Bear met a beautiful, special being and fell in love in the winter,” Otabek continues, half to himself. “And in the spring, they had a son.”

“That’s too soon,” Aigerim says, completely serious. “It takes more time than that for a baby to be born.”

“I’m going to marry Otabek,” Sarnai decides, cuddling up to Otabek.

“You can’t do that,” Ulyrau argues.

Otabek pats the girl’s head. “You’re going to have to marry someone else.”

“And you’re not supposed to have children if you’re not married,” Aigerim continues, as though that’s the only problem she can find with a story about having children with a bear. “Did the Bear and the beautiful one marry?”

“I want to marry Otabek!” Sarnai repeats, pouting.

“Marrying is stupid!” Suyumbek says. “This story is stupid!”

“No, you’re stupid!”

The two youngest get to their feet and run away, Sarnai chasing after Suyumbek, crying.

“Girls,” Ulyrau sighs and gets a smack in the shoulder from Aigerim, who also leaves, sick of their nonsense stories. “I don’t want to get married either. What happened to the bear?”

“He saw that living between the earth and the sky meant dying, and he didn’t want that,” Otabek continues. “So he took his beautiful one and his child and returned to the sky. There’s no death for them up there.”

“Are all stars spirits?” Ulyrau asks. “Do you think your snow cat went up there?”

“No, I think he just went home. He wasn’t a spirit,” Otabek replies, lying down on the grass. The constellation of Lynx is near the Big Bear, although it’s faint.

“I thought that’s what spirits looked like.” Ulyrau picks up a blade of grass and holds it between his thumbs, blowing sad notes from the makeshift whistle. “Kind of angry, but also pretty.”

Otabek covers his face with his arm, his fingertips seeking out the scar on the side of his head. The stars are a little bit too bright. Such a short time had left such indelible marks on him. More than scars, it’s knowledge and a sense of inherent change, even regret. By all accounts he’d done what his responsibilities had called for. He’d taken something in, he’d cared for it the best he could, and he’d released it when the time had come.

It’s the right thing to do with animals, but what about humans?

~

The weather stays warm long into the year.

The grasses turn from green to yellow, bearing seeds, but rather than freezing, everything withers and dries under unseasonal heat. Watering holes and streams dry out, and dust storms plague the family on the way back to the winter pastures.

Otabek comes across the remains of the Muscovite procession in the river valley again.

This time no water flows in the river. The wagons are still there, their wheels sunken into the ground. The pile of bodies has been diminished into nothing but bones and scattered across the area. Otabek doesn’t descend into the valley this time. He volunteers to stay with the herd even after they’ve returned to the winter pastures. The foals are still young, and he’s responsible for them.

“That might finally be rain or even snow,” Kireybek says one evening. “Go on.” He releases the horse whose hooves they’d just shaved with a slap to its flank and wipes sweat off his forehead.

Otabek squints at the red horizon. They’re covered in grime from working all day, and he’s given up on trying to wipe it off. “That could just be another dust storm.”

“I hope not.” Kireybek grimaces. Rain, or even snow, would control the dust somewhat.

The clouds above the red veil of dust are dark brown and grey and move quickly. The next time Otabek looks up is because of an unexpected whistle. Ulyrau is riding towards them in a hurry, waving his hand.

“Otabek!” he yells from the distance. “You need to come!”

Otabek and Kireybek share a glance, and wait for Ulyrau to ride up to them. He pulls his horse into a hard stop, making the animal skid across the dirt. Both the animal and Ulyrau are out of breath and blanketed in a film of fine soil from the hard ride.

“Is something wrong?” Otabek asks, not able to think of anything else that would warrant the approach.

“No!” Ulyrau says, already turning his horse to go right back. “Hurry!” He’s restless, but not fearful.

“Is it important?” Otabek glances at his brother again. “Is it okay?”

“He wouldn’t come get you if it wasn’t important,” Kireybek says. “Right?”

“Right!” Ulyrau asserts. His horse is kicking up a lot of dust, pacing back and forth, and Otabek resigns himself to another grit-filled supper. The dust gets everywhere.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Otabek asks. They’re pasturing the herd closer to the lake this year, but the ride back is still a few hours, even when hurrying. “It’ll be dark before we get back.”

Ulyrau looks like he might come apart at the seams. “It’s _Muscovites_!” he cries. His horse rears up, taking on his excitement, and Ulyrau grins open-mouthed at Otabek.

“Traders?” Otabek’s voice cracks. He whistles for Burdock.

“I don’t know!” Ulyrau rides a small circle around them. “I left as soon as I saw the wagon. I knew you’d want to talk to them.”

“I hope you’re right about the snow,” Otabek tells Kireybek. This time his voice stays even, but his hands shake as he saddles his mount. Ulyrau jumps down to help him, even though the few minutes he spends getting Burdock ready won’t make a difference in the long run.

“If it hits while you’re still riding, I think you’ll change your mind,” Kireybek says lightly.

_I’ll greet it as an old friend_ , Otabek thinks, mounting Burdock. _Snow and Muscovites both._

The clouds meet with them halfway back. Lacking the light from both the sun and the moon forces them to slow down to avoid having their horses stumbling into the dried-out cracks in the ground. The visibility decreases even further when snow begins to fall, and Otabek has to control his impatience.

“How many were there?” he asks when they slow down. There’s still half the distance to cover.

“Just one wagon, but there were two riders, and they were escorting some horses,” Ulyrau explains. “There were six horses! They looked much taller than ours, and they had very shiny coats.” Their hardy, squat horses often look shaggy instead, especially in winter.

Otabek mulls over the information, fighting his urge to spur Burdock into an outright gallop across the treacherous, dry ground. Burdock speeds up anyway, sensing the muscles he’s attempting to relax but just ends up tensing and releasing over and over again.

“They might know something about him,” Ulyrau voices the thought circling over both their heads, breaking the silence that has grown like frost around them.

“They might,” Otabek agrees uneasily. “But not every Muscovite knows every other Muscovite.”

“Why else would they have come to us?”

Otabek admits it’s strange with a nod and a grunt, but doesn’t prolong the conversation. He allows Burdock to trot, turning his face up towards the snow. The cold touches feel good on his overheated skin, but by the time they finally make it to the family yurts, his face is numb with cold, and he’s shaking from head to toe. Not from the cold, which he hardly feels, but in fear at his hope.

The painted wagon stands alone apart from the yurts. The foreign horses are all wearing decorated blankets on their backs and their feet are wrapped. Otabek resists the curiosity he has for the tall, graceful animals and heads into his mother’s yurt instead. It’s late and dark, and there’s nobody outside, but the inside is lit, warm, and smells of food. Colourful rugs and furs cover the floor, and seats are assigned by embroidered cushions. Eyinzhu is there, pouring tea. Altynbek is sitting by a dainty woman, who is wearing a silvery grey dress, which covers her from neck to toe, and a long veil that sweeps back from the forehead. The conversation stops as the door swings shut behind Otabek. A slim man sitting on the other side of the grey lady, wearing a long, fur-edged red coat, stands up, opening up his arms.

“Бека!” he says. “I-am-here!”

The content of the words is familiar, but the cadence is not. The man has a pointed face and pale, luminous eyes. His nose is straight and narrow. His ashy yellow hair is tied back. The remnants of the childishly round cheeks are gone, and the body has become taller, but the eager expression with the teeth peeking out between curled lips is the same.

Otabek feels as endless as the sky as he lifts his arms, and Yuri springs across the cushions and tea setting to embrace him.


	16. Epilogue

Both the woman and the horses are beautiful. Otabek suspects none of them is suited for a life on the steppe. The woman shares many features with Yuri, except her eyes are blue, although they are still striking.

“Отабек, son-of-Алтынбек. My-mother, Евгения Николаевна.”

Her motherhood is apparent in the expression she wears, identical to that of Eyinzhu, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the hearth. Otabek is uncomfortable between them, and has little idea of what the name he’d just heard is.

“I-have-horses,” Yuri continues excitedly, to the exasperation of both their mothers. “Give-me-your-son.” In Yuri’s unfamiliarly patterned speech, the words seem almost like a threat. Otabek realises he’s arrived in the middle of a conversation.

“This is hardly what I had in mind for your wife!” Eyinzhu accuses Otabek. “Why is this boy back, and why is he insisting that having horses entitles him to you?”

Yuri’s mother seems to have a similar complaint, but it’s levelled at Yuri in their tongue. Yuri shakes his head impatiently at her.

“One-has-horses,” Yuri attempts again with an expression of extreme concentration. “The-other-has-land.”

Otabek may have land in this equation, but he has no words. It is indeed their way of life to have one provide the livestock, and the other the pastures. And it is the custom to share those in marriage. The objections of his mother blur away, and the golden glow of the fire seems to be emanating from Yuri’s face instead.

“Well,” Altynbek breaks the tableau, stroking his chin. “The boy is right in what he’s saying.”

Eyinzhu clicks her tongue at her husband. “That isn’t the point.”

“I accept,” Otabek breaks his silence. The words and concepts come to a point where they make sense. _Wife. Horses._ “If he wants to marry me, I accept. He has horses,” he adds when Eyinzhu clicks her tongue again. “And I have land.”

There seem to be more words of disagreement, but Otabek only hears Yuri say, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you, dear reader, have made it this far: thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking.


	17. Post-Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It snowed today so I wanted to post this.
> 
> Whether writing this was actually a good idea remains to be seen.

The people around the hearth are silent. _We’re all exhausted,_ Otabek thinks, looking at the pair of travellers that share the fireside with him. Yuri’s mother is even more out of place than her son, as though floating and glowing in her pearly grey clothes. Yuri looks back at Otabek with a familiar, lambent gaze, making Otabek’s insides quake.

“You stare,” Yuri murmurs.

“You look different,” Otabek says slowly.

“Hm? I have clothes,” Yuri says, pointing at his coat.

Although probably not his intention, Yuri’s words evoke something wholly different in Otabek’s imagination than the difference in his clothes, and with that in mind, he’s even less able to take his eyes off Yuri. Especially after a whole year. Not when Yuri glances at him carefully and purses his lips slightly.

“You stare,” Yuri repeats softly. “I feel it.”

“Did I not stare before?” Otabek asks. His memory is filled with nothing but looking at and touching Yuri. Countless preserved moments of watching his changeable face and indulging in admiration.

“A little. You talk more,” Yuri says.

His inhalation of surprise is sharp as Otabek leans closer and touches his fingertip to the spot between Yuri’s brows and strokes down along Yuri’s nose. Yuri’s mother makes a noise disapproval when Otabek puts his forehead against Yuri’s and moves to caress his ear. Yuri’s eyes flutter, closing, as he sighs sweetly.

“Бека. You will wed me?” he asks.

“Yes. I want to.”

“Юрочка,” Yuri’s mother says. It sounds like a longer version of Yuri’s name, and Yuri’s response is a very adolescent groan.

Their mothers seem to be of one mind because Eyinzhu steps back in after her private discussion with Altynbek, looking like the storm itself. “Otabek, my light,” she says shortly. “Take the guests back to their own accommodations. It’s time we all rest. We’ll resume this conversation tomorrow.”

The end of the bewildered discussion seems to relieve Yuri’s mother. Otabek can find no blame as she can’t understand them and wonders how much Yuri has told her. Outside in the snow, Yuri takes her arm and Otabek also offers his help because it’s his duty to help his seniors, especially the mother of his bride, but she pulls away from him.

“Sorry,” he says, stepping back. “I’m this dirty and I touched her.” He’s carrying the grime of several days of work with the horses as well as travel. He’s coated with dust sticking to his sweat, and his scalp itches.

“да,” Yuri agrees. “You stink. Бath.”

Otabek takes another step away from Yuri and his mother. “You’re right,” he admits.

Because he’s still unused to hearing Yuri speak his tongue and because it’s late, far later than Otabek’s usual bedtime, he isn’t sure if he’s just heard a command or an invitation to bathe. He hasn’t rested or eaten in hours, having spent the day either working or riding, and, finally, awestruck at the sight of his new Muscovite bride.

“What is different with me?” Yuri asks after helping his mother into the wagon, lingering on the steps because they’ve not had the chance to speak much or be alone.

“You’re older,” Otabek says.

“I am old?” Yuri drops lightly off the steps. “I am... семнадцать.” He counts using his fingers. “Сeven-тeen. My mother wed at сeven-тeen. It is suitable age.”

“I meant you’ve grown up,” Otabek says. Yuri’s eyes are almost at the same level as his now. “Earlier you were only up to here.” He places his hand his nose.

“I was not!” Yuri says in surprise. “I was not that small!”

“You were. You were _tiny_ ,” Otabek assures him. “I could pick you up just like that.” He bridges the gap between them and grabs Yuri around the waist, lifting him up off the steps and twirls him around, causing Yuri’s indignation to change into amusement and laughter.

“Бека!” he cries.

Otabek’s throat and eyes tingle with the dust that’s been blowing at his face all day. His lungs must be coated with it. They ache in the air that’s turned cold. “Yura,” he murmurs, earning a brilliant grin and an armful of slightly less tiny Yuri.

“Бека, Бека,” Yuri repeats, wholly ignoring all the dirt on Otabek and his clothes. His fingers dig into Otabek’s back, substantial even through the layers of felted wool and leather. “I miss riding horse. Having бath. Bedtime. Talk. I miss your eyes. When you look at me, I’m happy.” He pulls away, mouth rounded. “I thought you would say no.”

“To what? Marrying you?” Otabek says in disbelief. “Why would I?”

“Because... Maybe not enough horses? Maybe too much time has passed? Maybe you already have a wife and family.” Yuri clutches at him again. “Maybe you are dead. When you left, you were wounded.”

“You took such a risk in coming here,” Otabek murmurs, realising what Yuri is telling him. “Without knowing if I would be here or how your proposal would go.”

Yuri shrugs, but it’s not to dismiss the issue. “I can never know what’ll happen. I must still act.”

Otabek is struck again by the determination with which Yuri operates, now as well as then. He swallows hard and responds by crushing Yuri against his chest. He palms the back of Yuri’s head, pushing his fingers into his soft hair, and presses their cheeks together. The scent of spring grass hits him like a kick from a horse, a sudden snap that sends his mind reeling and makes his body crave.

The snow hasn’t stopped, but Otabek doesn’t feel the cold. He feels Yuri grasping at his braid, feels him shiver, and feels the warmth of his gasp by his ear. He feels a rush both in his head and between his legs.

“Юрочка,” Yuri’s mother says from the wagon’s doorway. The rest of her words are a blur in Otabek’s ears. Yuri draws away from him with a sigh and a rueful reply to her.

“We must sleep,” Yuri explains. His eyes are radiant even though it’s dark. “You. Спасибо. Thank you. And бath.”

“Yes, bath,” Otabek agrees. He doesn’t drop his hand from touching Yuri’s fingers until the distance forces him to. Even after the door to the wagon is shut, he stands still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the permanent camp, the sizzle of snow touching down. He burns.

To cool down, he gets to know Yuri’s horses a little, letting them snuffle at his hands and scratching their ears with promises of apples to come until he feels reasonable again. Upon returning to Eyinzhu’s yurt, to his surprise, she’s still awake and sitting by the hearth. She stops him in his tracks with a look.

“Is this what you truly want, my light?” she asks.

The inside of the yurt has a very different feel to it when empty of people and light. “I think so,” Otabek says. Eyinzhu wouldn’t start the conversation if she didn’t have something to say, so Otabek waits, empty through sheer exhaustion.

“You _think_ so?” Her voice is sharp. “This is a situation where you should _know_.”

“If I’d said I know, you would’ve scolded me for thinking I could know something like this.”

“You!” Eyinzhu clicks her tongue. “You’re absolutely right.”

“Then what’s the right answer? What should I say?” Otabek looks at his hands. They feel empty too just after holding Yuri. “I do want this. I thought I’d never see him again.”

“Even the marriage?” Eyinzhu holds out her arm, and Otabek moves to help her up off the cushion.

“Even that if it’s possible,” Otabek says. “But even without it, I’d have him.”

Eyinzhu sighs deeply. “It’s not impossible,” she mutters. “Fine, if you’re sure-”

“I am,” Otabek says.

“Then I’ll arrange it,” she promises.

“Thank you, mom.” Otabek helps her into her bed alcove and assists her in taking off her boots. “I know I’m troublesome,” he confesses to her feet. “But Yura is special. To me. Even though we only spent a short time together, I... Today I was overjoyed.”

“You’re such a foolish child,” Eyinzhu says, touching the top of his bowed head. “And so is that other one. Brave too. To just show up like that and demand marriage on the basis of a few horses. As a man to another man! You must’ve made such an impression!”

“He is brave,” Otabek agrees, looking at his hands. Just a few moments ago, he’d held Yuri again. His hands wouldn’t remain empty for long. “He made an impression on me too.”

“Go away. Leave me alone now.” Eyinzhu pushes him away, making an exasperated noise under her breath. “Go scrub yourself clean, you smell like the wrong end of the horse.”

~

Otabek wakes to an altered world. It’s dawn, but he’s not the first one awake. The hearth is lit, and his three mothers are gathered around it. Although they’re married to the same man, it’s rare to see just the three of them together. Eyinzhu wears a bun held together with bone hairpins. Pinar is dressed in southern style robes, all black, with a veil to cover her hair but exposing the heavy golden earrings. Dilraba has her two braided buns, with the ends of the braids coming down to her shoulders.

Eyinzhu puts down her cup of tea when she spots the hesitant Otabek. “Come here.” She gestures for the cushion next to hers. “You left your hair undone.”

Otabek takes the indicated seat, letting her fuss over his hair, comb it, and braid it. He keeps his mouth shut even though he’s curious.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Pinar breaks the silence. “But of course it’s you who’s doing this, Otabek.”

“What do you mean you don’t mean anything by that?” Eyinzhu replies immediately. “That sort of thing always means something.”

“Your second son has always been queer,” Pinar sniffs. Her opinion is nothing new, and Otabek isn’t offended on his own behalf. It’s the obvious affront to his mother that’s hard to swallow.

“At least I _have_ a second son,” Eyinzhu mutters and the atmosphere freezes over.

“I would love to be of more help,” Dilraba breaks the almost literal ice. “That’s why you asked us to come, isn’t it? We can’t break all the traditions, but some of them have to go by virtue of the bride being... Well.”

“We need to invite an augur,” Eyinzhu says, dropping her on-and-off-again feud with Pinar.

“The bride’s family should be represented,” Pinar continues. “But how is that possible? The mother can’t speak with us without the son, and the son is... Why should he be the interpreter?”

“Yura will be objective,” Otabek says, feeling like he should defend his _bride’s_ honour.

“This might be one of the things where we need to be more flexible,” Dilraba says. They sip their teas while Eyinzhu finishes braiding Otabek’s hair, being a fair bit more rough than usual.

Pinar puts her cup down. “What do we base the bride price on? He won’t provide any children. He’s barely more than an animal. Where will they live? With you, first wife? What about the bride’s mother? She’s obviously here to stay.”

“I’ll go ask him what he wants to do,” Otabek says, hoping to help.

“Alone? No,” Eyinzhu snaps. “You need a chaperone. You know this.”

“But-”

“The situation is different now,” she forestalls his objection. “The chaperone must be your senior.”

Otabek’s mind falls blank.

“Why don’t I go?” Dilraba suggests. “I have to look in on my children anyway.”

She’s only a little older than Otabek but technically his senior, being married to his father. The two others have an expression saying they know this is a loop hole in Otabek’s favour, but they can’t object on a technicality. Otabek hurries to get dressed for the outside before they can think of something.

“Thank you,” he tells Dilraba outside the yurt. It’s still snowing, but in a leisurely manner: one or two flakes floating down now and then to settle on the transformed village. The wagon and the horses in their temporary encampment stand out with their bright paints and blankets.

Yuri is sitting on the step to the wagon, staring down a similarly serious Sarnai, standing a few paces away from him. Sarnai isn’t the only one watching the curious wagon with its curious occupants and the curious horses, but the rest are doing it far more delicately, passing glances while doing chores or visiting the next yurt over.

“Yura,” Otabek says automatically, causing Yuri to jump up and startle the little girl.

“Mom!” Sarnai sprints at them, grappling onto her mother’s legs. “Snow cat’s back!”

“He is,” Dilraba laughs and picks her up. “He came back to marry Otabek, did you hear that?”

“No!” Sarnai’s wide eyes are followed by a pursed mouth. “He can’t do that. He’s a snow cat!” She struggles in Dilraba’s arms. “Otabek is going to marry me!”

“Excuse me?” Dilraba laughs again, trying to calm her down. “He can’t marry you. He’s your brother.”

Yuri has come up to them, looking suspicious and somewhat bemused. “Why snow cat?” he asks. He doesn’t close the gap between them in the light of day, staying a few paces away, which, Otabek has to admit, is the decorous thing to do under the eyes of everyone. It also occurs to Otabek Yuri has no idea of his own reputation within Otabek’s family.

“It’s your eyes,” Otabek says, reaching up to touch Yuri’s cheek, immediately breaking the distance he’s just agreed is right. Dilraba has stepped a little distance away in consideration but clears her throat, and Otabek drops his hand. “They’re so green. The children have only seen animals with green or yellow eyes. Like a lynx.”

“Lynx,” Yuri repeats slowly. He looks so bright against the snow, dressed in his red coat, eyes thoughtful.

“Do you remember when you sang at the echo and it started snowing?” Otabek asks, becoming aware of Yuri’s mother also watching them from the doorway of the wagon. “It created a rumour that you’re a snow spirit, and Sarnai combined it with the idea of an animal, and that’s how you became a snow cat.”

“Snow cat!” Sarnai pipes in, fighting to get out of her mother’s arms. She dashes over to grab Otabek’s leg.

“I’m not a snow cat,” Yuri says seriously. “My name is Yuri.”

It seems to strike Sarnai mute with surprise to hear Yuri speak her language directly at her. She stares up at him, clutching onto Otabek, trying to rework her world.

“Have you had breakfast?” Dilraba comes in closer with a smile. “If you haven’t, you and your mother are welcome to come breakfast with us. If you don’t mind the company of two young children and my mother.”

For a moment, Yuri has the exact same expression as Sarnai, working things out in his head. It’s the most adorable thing Otabek has ever seen.

“Thank you,” Yuri says. “I will ask.” He turns on his heel and marches over to the wagon to talk to his mother.

“Beka,” Sarnai says, tugging on the hem of his coat. “Cats can’t speak.”

“Maybe he’s not a cat.” Otabek strokes her head. “Ever think about that?”

She gasps and runs back to Dilraba, but the reason is probably Yuri and his mother approaching them rather than the shock of the cat not being a cat. Yuri’s mother is no taller than her son and shares many of the same qualities, such as the fair skin and hair. Her veil is attached to a band around her head, and the band is studded with gemstones.

It makes Otabek take another look at his betrothed, remembering the fine detail of the embroidery on the clothes he’d found Yuri in. He still has the clothes bundled up among his personal belongings. Although the clothes were useless to him, he’s not been able to throw them away. Now, Yuri’s straight, long red coat, fringed with black fur, and his mother’s fine leather gloves and more delicate version of the coat Yuri wears make Otabek realise they must be or must have been quite wealthy.

While Dilraba leads them towards her yurt, with Yuri helping her mother over the uneven, snowy ground, Otabek takes another look at the horses, carrying Sarnai with him. She pets and touches the animals with familiarity, unafraid, while Otabek inspects them in the light of day. He isn’t familiar with the breed, but they are healthy and friendly and have beautiful proportions.

“Good horses, aren’t they?” Otabek murmurs to Sarnai, who agrees enthusiastically.

He hurries after Yuri and his mother, noticing Yuri’s pleading backwards glance, reminded of the events that had spurred Yuri to travel alone from the East back home. Those events—a war—must have been difficult for his mother too. And to come all the way here with her son.

Otabek stays behind them, glad his arms are taken up the four-year-old, so he won’t break the bounds of propriety again by grabbing Yuri and hiding him into his bed alcove. The dual urge to protect and possess him is not new, but it is newly awakened, taking Otabek by surprise by its force.

“I like to drink milk tea,” Dilraba announces, holding open the door to her yurt. Yuri’s mother holds a small, embroidered piece of cloth to her nose, but they all pretend not to notice. “I hope you like it too.”

Dilraba’s yurt is filled with wall hangings depicting animals and scenes of nature as if they’re openings into the steppe. Otabek has always liked the ones with the colourful flocks of birds, but in almost everything else he takes after Eyinzhu, preferring the muted geometric patterns she uses for decration. Yuri stops briefly to take in the landscapes.

“Milk tea,” he repeats. “Tea with milk?” He translates it to his mother, having a short discussion with her as they’re seated on cushions around the hearth, glancing around.

Otabek lets Sarnai down, and she rushes to help her mother, pretending to be the hostess. “Where’d you get the horses?” he asks, wanting more of Yuri’s story. And attention.

“I buy- I bought them,” Yuri says. He tilts his body towards Otabek, softening around the edges.

“It’ll be difficult to integrate them into the herd because we don’t know where they come from or what their families are like,” Otabek says. “What do you want to do with them?”

“I give them to you,” Yuri replies, confusion creeping into his eyes. “Sell them! Make sausage!”

The cry of a baby interrupts them, and Dilraba’s mother emerges from behind one of the panelled walls, carrying the pudgy Gerenbek. She stops to stare at the guests, but then defers to the rules of hospitality and merely nods a greeting. She’s a tiny woman, maybe even smaller and Yuri’s mother, and has a head of silvery white braided buns.

“This is my mother, Amai,” Dilraba hurries to do the introduction. “This is Y- Yuri? And his mother?”

“Евгения,” Yuri says, gesturing to his mother. There is a pause as everyone tries to grasp the name.

“Ye- Ev- Evgeniya,” Dilraba says slowly, having deciphered it.

The sight and sounds of the 6-month-old baby seem to have woken Evgeniya's interest. She watches curiously until Dilraba notices and shares the baby with her, causing them both to smile as Gerenbek waves his hands and legs, trying to grab the rattling toy attached to his ankle. Yuri looks put off. Otabek realises Evgeniya must not have been very old when she'd had Yuri.

“Gamma.” Sarnai is already trying to climb into her grandmother’s lap. “It’s the snow cat and snow cat’s mother! They’re going to marry Otabek! Do all cats marry?”

The whole group shuffles around, and Otabek ends up in possession of the baby, his youngest brother, while Dilraba prepares the tea and puts together a batter she can fry into flatbread. Otabek holds his brother up and compliments him on his growth, while the moment settles. Yuri is staring at him again, now with a twisted mouth.

“Yours?” he asks, gesturing at the baby.

“No.” Otabek shakes his head, surprised. “My dad’s. My brother.”

Yuri’s mouth creates an ‘o’ of understanding as he glances at Dilraba. “Your dad’s,” he repeats.

“Wait,” Otabek says. “Did you think I had children?”

Yuri shrugs. “This one looks like Бека.” He points at Sarnai.

“She’s my sister,” Otabek clarifies, meeting Dilraba’s somewhat amused look over the hearth, then ducks his head under the less amused look of Amai. “Dilraba is my father’s third wife.”

“Third!” Yuri exclaims, surprised. “But your mother is still alive.”

“Yes?” Otabek senses they’re coming up against another cultural difference. “A man can have many wives. My father has three.”

“At the same time?” Yuri still questions, shaking his head. “No. No. You will have only one,” he says, entirely displeased with the idea, which shows in his wrinkled brow and tight lips.

“O- Oh, all right?” Otabek says, borne on the unfamiliar waves of Yuri’s jealousy.

“да!” Yuri finishes, bewildered.

Gerenbek begins to fuss at the outburst, and Otabek rocks him with a somewhat absent mind. _Only one wife_ , his mind repeats. He’d never particularly wanted children of his own, so even if his wife is also a man, it won’t be a problem. Sarnai comes to play with the baby, crooning at him.

“You don’t have brothers or sisters?” Otabek asks, aware of being watched by three pairs of eyes and not all of them entirely accepting. The yurt fills with the scent of frying bread, which steals both Yuri and Sarnai’s attention. Even the way they lick their lips is similar.

“Нет.” Yuri shakes his head, watching the breakfast preparations. “No brothers. No sisters. Only one mother. Only one father. Only me.”

Otabek leaves his questions for later, satisfied with just watching the way his face flickers between expressions as he tries to contain his hunger. Dilraba leaves Amai to finish the bread while she begins to serve the tea, pouring hot water onto the leaves she’d carefully dropped into the ceramic cups. The cups have small lids and saucers for holding onto while the cup itself is too hot.

“Yuri,” Dilraba says, breaking silence. “You’re to marry our Otabek. Is it common for men to marry men where you come from?”

“No. It’s- it’s against... the senses? The law.” Yuri watches the pouring of the milk into the tea, then his eyebrows shoot up as Dilraba sprinkles white crystalline flakes into the mixture. “Salt!”

“Oh? Oh, yes.” Dilraba smiles. “Milk tea has water, fresh milk, tea, and salt.”

“Tea is sweet!” Yuri argues. Evgeniya has sat up in alarm at his outburst, as has Sarnai. Even Gerenbek squeaks in surprise at the loud noise.

“Milk tea isn’t sweet,” Sarnai says with a huff, overlooking Yuri’s objection. “Cats don’t even drink tea.”

Dilraba tries very hard not to laugh, but her hands shake as she finishes the tea for everyone and offers the cups from a round tray. “Please try it,” she says. “If you don’t like it, I’ll make something else for you.”

Yuri turns to Otabek, who gestures at the tea cups, then to his mother and has a brief conversation with her. She seems resigned, but then straightens her back and gracefully accepts the cup, murmuring what must be a thank-you to Dilraba. She then stares at Yuri until he takes a cup as well.

 _I know that look_. Otabek has been enough under similar maternal censure to recognise it. “I prefer regular tea,” he says, wanting to let Yuri know he isn’t alone. “But I don’t mind milk tea either. Did you say tea should be sweet?”

“Yes!” Yuri nods for emphasis. “Berries or fruit make it sweet.” He pauses, sniffing the unfamiliar drink, then tastes it. His face tightens, but he keeps from scowling. His mother is making a similar face. “But no sweet tea here,” Yuri mumbles, looking at Otabek.

 _Is it a fair trade?_ Otabek wonders. Everything Yuri has ever known left behind to live the life of a nomad. “Yura,” Otabek murmurs. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to stay home? Not travel back.”

“Easier?” Yuri tilts his head as though he doesn’t understand, staring at Otabek’s mouth. “Things I want to do are easier,” he says then. “I wanted to come here. It was easier than not coming.”

“Even though there won’t be sweet tea?” Otabek asks softly.

Yuri looks at the cup in his hands, at his mother, at Dilraba and her children, he even meets Amai’s flint-hard eyes, then lets his gaze travel around the yurt, stopping on the wall-hanging that is Otabek’s favourite, featuring a pair of colourful, strange water fowl. Otabek is only vaguely aware of the children playing with the rattling toy, of the sizzle and steam of the flatbread, and the scent of fresh butter being spread on the hot treats. He watches Yuri take stock of the moment and the place where he is.

“Everything is under the same sky,” Yuri says then.

The sky is endless. The steppe, although it seems so, isn’t. Yuri has travelled far, far beyond the borders of the central grasslands and semi-arid plains. He’s seen the same sky far north and far east. It’s a concept Otabek struggles to imagine, seized with the feeling of being insignificantly small in comparison. And yet, under that endless sky, Yuri has chosen to be with him.

Yuri leans towards him, expression curious and questioning, but he is forced to draw back when Dilraba settles between them with the fresh bread. “Yuri,” she says. “I’d like to talk with you and your mother, if that’s all right? If you’re to marry our Otabek, there are traditions and rituals to follow. I can explain them to you before we start the bride price negotiations.”

“Neg-” Yuri starts. “Bride price?”

“I’ll explain those things,” Dilraba promises. “For now, eat.”

~

“Weddings are a celebration of the wo- the bride,” Altynbek says diplomatically. “It’s for the women to arrange as they wish because it’s an exchange between mothers.”

Otabek has seen very little of Yuri for two days since the negotiations began and has had even fewer opportunities to talk to him. He isn’t even allowed into the yurt while Eyinzhu and the other women negotiate with Yuri’s mother, so he’s sitting outside by the tea fire with his father and some others. Many seem to still be finding tasks to perform outside, mending gear or making new supplies while waiting to catch a glimpse of the Muscovites.

It has snowed on and off for the whole day, and the children don’t seem to be getting tired of playing in it, rolling balls and using it like clay to form snow men and animals. Otyrau and Ulyrau are engrossed in a game of _ankle bones_ , and Janibek is engrossed in being dismissive and arrogant.

“Do they really think they’re welcome to join us?” he says. “They don’t know our way of life.”

“That’s true,” Altynbek admits. “I suppose that’s why the womenfolk are taking such a long time to talk it out.”

“And maybe because that white-haired spirit isn’t a woman.”

“Possibly,” Altynbek agrees. “I remember when I wanted to marry your mother and my mother was against it because at the time Pinar didn’t know our way of life either. But now she’s the queen of the steppe, so don’t you think your brother has the same right to marry who he wants as you and me?”

Otabek doesn’t share his opinion that Janibek has never been happy about anything. He watches the door of his mother’s yurt, willing them to just come out already. If they can’t reach an agreement, a neutral arbiter will have to be brought in from the town of Seven Rivers. Sometimes the bridal negotiations can stretch out for months, and Otabek isn’t ready for that.

“Whether the bride is a woman is of no importance when the mother of the bride is a woman like that,” Otyrau says in his measured way. “Otabek, ask your bride to introduce me.”

“Dad!” Ulyrau says.

“What?” He tosses the ankle bones with a twist of his wrist, landing many in the desired position of horses.

“You can’t just- If he’s a spirit, she must be one too!” Ulyrau’s face reddens slowly.

“Hm? It’s proven she can give birth to sons,” Otyrau says. “Spirit or not.”

“Dad!” Ulyrau repeats when both his father and Altynbek chuckle and shove elbows at each other.

“What’s the point of marrying a male bride?” Janibek grunts. “He can’t have children.”

Otabek notices his tea has grown cold but he drinks it anyway. Although Janibek has been married almost a year, his wife has not achieved pregnancy. It’s probably part of the reason for Janibek’s unhappiness with the situation.

“Does it matter to you?” Otabek says, spinning on thin ice. “You’ll have enough children for the both of us, won’t you?”

The silence stretches, filled with the snapping of bone fuel in the fire and hum of the village, until Otabek hangs his head over his cup. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling the combined weight of the gazes of his father and brother on him. “All I meant is that you’ll have children because you want them. I’m fine with not having any, so my bride being male isn’t an issue.”

He gets up, tossing the remaining liquid from his cup. “I’ll go look at his horses,” he says, tired of waiting and nervous of the negotiations dragging on, and sorry for taking it out on his brother. “I should walk them.”

“I’ll come help!” Ulyrau volunteers immediately, abandoning the game with his father. “Sorry about what my dad said,” he confides in Otabek while they walk to the beautiful horses.

“What? I didn’t mind,” Otabek says. “Yura’s mother must be lonely all the way out here with no family.”

The horses are already familiar with the both of them, at least to the point of allowing themselves to be handled. After untethering them, Otabek tries a whistle which makes their ears perk up, but they don’t gather up to him or follow him without further prompting. Handling them might be an issue on the steppe, especially in case of predators and the horses being introduced to the existing herd. Their care and safety would be Otabek’s responsibility, and his throat goes a little tight at the thought of Yuri trusting these fine animals in his care. As well as himself.

“Why do you want to marry him?” Ulyrau asks while they’re taking the animals around the village. The yurts are built on a fairly even plot of ground, half a day’s distance from the side of the lake, and without the benefit of any particular windbreaking element in the landscape.

Otabek stays quiet at first, not sure how to answer.

“I mean, isn’t marriage for making children?” Ulyrau continues, taking Janibek’s side. “And two men... can’t.” He pauses, but Otabek knows to expect more. “Unless he really is a spirit and can change at will,” Ulyrau adds in a hurry, getting into his favourite subject.

“He can’t,” Otabek says with a sigh. It’s not windy and not particularly cold despite the snow. “I just like him better than any woman.”

“He’s nice to look at but…” Ulyrau trails off. “But how do you have sex with him?” he asks in a hurry, pinpointing the topic of most interest among young men. A topic often discussed with crude jokes and stories around fires when the young men of several families gather during a celebration or camp meeting.

Otabek turns his attention from the wandering horses to his cousin, sizing him up. He can’t fault his interest. “That’s what I’d like to know,” he mutters, revealing that he’s similarly unprepared.

“You don’t know either?” Ulyrau says and laughs nervously, creating a cloud of steam above them.

The horses nip at the ends of shrubs and paw at the snow, looking for things to eat around them. Curious, perhaps, but mostly interested in grazing. _They should be moved to a pasture_ , Otabek’s instinct to take care of animals reminds him. _This waiting period wears on them. Too many people. No proper space or feed_.

“It wears on me too,” Otabek mutters, looking up at the clouds. They’re a strange, muted pink from the sunset, warm to the eyes unlike the frozen, darkening expanse of the steppe. “It’s hard to wait to find out,” he adds for Ulyrau’s benefit. He whistles for the horses again, causing some of them to look up, but none of them approach.

The task of herding the animals around the village keeps them busy enough to drop the subject from their conversation, although it stays to prey on Otabek’s mind. He’s had a taste of Yuri, and even though it’s a treasured and oft-revisited memory, it has faded. The singing, the snow, the skin. Otabek’s face is hot with frustration when they circle back, and the heat condenses when he spots Yuri sitting on the steps of the wagon, alone under the darkening sky.

Yuri looks exhausted, hanging his head. His hair is rumpled like he’d run his hands through it over and over again. He sits up when he hears Otabek’s footsteps on the snow, but his eyes are bleary.

“Бека,” he says in relief, but then his face twists in a strange, despairing way. “I’m not a _woman_.”

“I know.” Otabek crouches by him. He takes Yuri’s hands between his and finds them cold, so he keeps them there.

“I’m _not_ a woman,” Yuri repeats, insistent,

“I know, but,” Otabek says, which earns him a glare and a hiss from Yuri. “But you _are_ my bride.”

Yuri’s tired anger vanishes, replaced with just tired acceptance. “да,” he says, reverting to the yes-noise of his own tongue. “All day again,” he continues. “So much talking. All they say, over and over, is that I am not a woman. Half the things I don’t understand, the other half is haggling. I have no worth because I can’t have children. Because I’m an outsider. Because my horses aren’t the right kind.”

Otabek places one of Yuri’s hands over his cheek, holding it between his face and his hand, considering the fact that usually the bride isn’t involved in the haggling process over the bride price, dowry, and other gifts that will exchange hands. “I’ll ask them to stop,” Otabek promises, although he can’t promise that they will actually stop. Customs and traditions have a strong hold of his culture.

Yuri leans down to nuzzle their cold faces together. These sweet, soft moments have been too rare. “All the way from the East, while I travelled, I think of mother. I must get home. Then you look at me and talk to me. You try to understand and protect. After I reach mother, all I think of is you. I must come back.”

With how close they are, Otabek is sure Yuri must hear his heart speeding up and pounding like a herd of horses. It proves, once again, that Yuri is who Otabek desires. Even this slightly more grown-up Yuri, with his more defined shape and wider shoulders. The more angular jaw and sharper cheeks no longer evoke an adorable little lynx cub but someone singularly beautiful. But the change goes beyond the physical. There is a slightly more subdued edge to Yuri now, the result of everything he’s seen and experienced in his over a year of travelling to get home.

“Tell me about your wedding traditions,” Otabek bids in an effort to distract himself from his desire to pull Yuri into his lap. It’s neither the time nor the place for it, outside Evgeniya’s wagon at night in the cold snow, but he intends to enjoy actually talking with Yuri as much as he can, every time he can, as well as the closeness they’re able to have.

Yuri pulls back a little, playing his cold fingers on the sides of Otabek’s head. He finds the scar on Otabek’s temple and makes a face. “There is a place,” he begins slowly. “A big building with golden roofs and pictures of... important people.”

To Otabek, the description evokes an image of sun-gilded mountains in the horizon. Those are the only golden roofs he knows. “Like the Headman’s house in Seven Rivers,” he says, imagining important people.

Yuri looks unhappy with the comparison, but goes on. “Everyone... The families gather there. Circles... Rings are spoken well of by an important man before worn on this finger.” He points to the third finger of his right hand, pausing. “Бlessed,” he clarifies. “Rings are _бlessed_.”

“I have some rings but no one has blessed them,” Otabek says. “The Headman can give or deny his blessing to a marriage if there’s a conflict but he can’t bless a ring.”

Yuri shrugs a little. “No ring needed. The woman and man wear hats... head...” He gestures impatiently at the top of his head. “Decorated hats,” he decides. “Then a cup is shared.”

“That’s our custom too,” Otabek murmurs, glad there’s at least one point they have in common with each other. “Sharing a cup.” He smiles at Yuri’s pout, running his thumb over Yuri’s lips. “And wearing decorated hats.”

Yuri droops a little, and when Otabek offers his shoulder, Yuri rests his head there, worrying Otabek’s fingers between his. His sigh of weariness is still sweet, tickling Otabek’s neck with its warmth.

“Are you tired?” Otabek murmurs.

Yuri makes his yes-noise as Otabek collects him into his arms, ignoring the snow in which he places his knees to have Yuri in his lap. They share breathless nuzzles and touches that aren’t enough to satisfy either of them, awkward in the shadow of the wagon and once again interrupted by Yuri’s mother.

“Юрочка,” she calls from inside wagon, speaking a short question. Otabek can still recognise the what-noise.

Yuri grunts and pulls away from him, his last touch lingering on Otabek’s cheek before he climbs the steps to the door. “Sleep, Бека,” he says softly.

“How do you expect me to sleep now?” Otabek whispers into his own hands, covering his face, but soon staggers up. He breaks the ice on the horses’ watering trough and uses a piece of it to cool himself down as he makes his way back to his mother’s yurt.

Eyinzhu is still awake, sitting by the hearth with a cup of tea. She looks tired too, glancing up as Otabek enters and comes to sit as well. At first they share no words. She pours him some tea, and he uses the cup to warm his hands until he knows what he wants to say.

“Stop haggling, mom,” he says. “Just give them the price they want.”

Eyinzhu clicks her tongue, flicking her head up with a scowl. “No child of mine is going to be wedded at a _disadvantage_.”

“This child of yours doesn’t care.”

“The children never care!” she says sharply “I didn’t care when I was to be married to your father, either. It took a _month_ for the negotiations to be finished! That’s why it’s the mother’s job.”

“Isn’t the situation different?” Otabek just stares into his tea, letting the flicker of the dying flames in the hearth colour his thoughts. “You were the Headman’s daughter. He… isn’t.”

“Is it?” she questions. “You’d value him low just to make this go faster?”

“No, I-”

“They don’t know of the bride price,” Eyinzhu speaks over him. “They don’t know what they want. They don’t have any knowledge of the origin of their horses. How are we to deal with that? How can we have them in the same herd? How can we show our value and the value we place on the union when they don’t know their _own_ value?”

“They have their own customs.” Otabek doesn’t speak to argue, only to remind her that Yuri and Evgeniya have come a long way. “There’s only the two of them. Even if the bride price and dowry aren’t agreed upon now, they’re not going anywhere. Can’t it be settled after?”

“Where are you going to live?” Eyinzhu asks with a sniff.

“With you,” Otabek says. “I’m your youngest child, and the bride leaves home. We’ll live with you and take care of you in your old age.” He turns the cup around in his hands, sips the strong tea, and looks up at his mother. “And I suppose we’ll do the same for his mother since she only has him.”

“Ha.” She shakes her head. “What filial sons we have.”

“I want the ceremony to happen as soon as possible,” Otabek says. “The next auspicious day.”

“It’ll be too soon.”

“I still want it.”

They stare at each other until she gets up from the low cushion in one graceful, practised move. “Does he know how to cook? To mend a yurt? To embroider your shirts? Does he know anything useful?” She pours the remains of her tea into the hearth, taking out the flames and shrouding them in almost absolute darkness.

“I can’t answer that, mom. But I’ll learn with him,” Otabek says. “I want us to know the same things so neither of us will have only one side of things to do. And I want to give him my bride gifts tomorrow,” Otabek says. “The horse harness, the silver, the cloth, everything.”

“Fine, those are yours to give,” she says, sounding both close and far away where she can’t be seen. “But he owes me a horse.”

Otabek knows better than to say anything. He listens to Eyinzhu move across the yurt and draw the drape to separate her bed alcove from the rest. He pours his tea into the hearth as well and gets up. In his bed he feels the lynx fur like he’s done countless times before and after Yuri. This time he rolls it up and places it aside. He knows who should have it.

~

A small camp appears around the Muscovite wagon during the next day. Eyinzhu’s concession is to move the negotiations there while they wait for the augur to arrive. But the wagon is too small to house all the wives and the Muscovites, so only Eyinzhu and Pinar sit inside with Evgeniya, with Yuri delegated to standing in the doorway. Dilraba sits outside on a cushioned bench and takes care of her children while listening in and tending to a small fire for tea and snacks.

Otabek joins her, playing with Sarnai and holding Gerenbek at intervals, wanting to spend his time as close to Yuri as possible. Although being there makes it that much harder to bite his tongue and keep silent while the conversation turns into more of an argument, Yuri trying to express his knowledge with words he lacks.

“I do know!” he says. “The horses have... they’re... I do know where they come from!”

“Then why can’t you recite their ancestry?” Eyinzhu challenges.

“I have records!” Yuri pushes into the wagon, and everyone outside the wagon can only listen to the clatter of items inside as well as Pinar’s offended voice.

“What good are foreign records?” she complains.

“It is not my fault you are unable to understand!” Yuri snaps, following his exclamation with a litany of rude words in his own tongue. He exits the wagon at speed, dashing across the snow and dodging anyone in his way. Otabek surges up, but before he can call for Yuri, Evgeniya comes out of the wagon and yells after him, followed by Eyinzhu who looks at Otabek and nods after Yuri.

Otabek abandons Sarnai’s horse toys and follows Yuri much to the little girl’s annoyance. Yuri darts between yurts and outbuildings and keeps going until he’s a fair distance away from the village, then projects all of his frustration at the sky in a scream. Otabek waits to approach him until the worst of the fury has dissipated. Yuri might as well be breathing fire from the amount of steam that comes from his mouth, coloured bright gold by the lazy and low-hanging sun.

The snow and frozen grass crunch underfoot as Otabek makes his way to Yuri. “Yura.”

Yuri kicks at some clumps of standing hay, making his red coat flare out like a wing or a flame. A light flurry of snow swirls down from the sky, from clouds that are almost invisible against the pearl-coloured sky. He grunts when he sees Otabek.

“You don’t know,” he says. “And I can’t explain.”

“Can you try?” Otabek asks. “It’s so strange and wonderful that you understand me and talk to me in my tongue, and yet it feels like there’s less we’re able to share.”

“Бека.” Yuri is stricken. “I don’t know the words.”

“I want to show you something.” Otabek gestures for Yuri to follow, thinking to try and take Yuri’s mind off the situation. Yuri is glum but follows Otabek to Eyinzhu’s yurt. Otabek leaves the door open to respect the wishes of his mother for them to not spend too much time together unsupervised, but when Otabek draws the drape around his bed aside, Yuri leaps into the furs with no hesitation.

“You want to show me your bed?” he asks, with slightly renewed spirit.

“No.” Otabek smiles. “Besides, it’ll be our bed soon.”

Yuri springs up immediately, face flushing almost as red has his coat, mouth round. “Aha,” he says faintly.

“It’s traditional for the bride to move in with her- _his_ husband,” Otabek continues, enjoying the play of expressions on Yuri’s face. His face settles on a small smile that straddles shy and expectant. “Here.” He kneels by the bed to pull out a large wooden chest with iron fittings. Heavy and expensive in a land where wood to create planks is scarce and the populace doesn’t, in general, have the interest, the tools, or the infrastructure for iron-mining.

Yuri kneels by him, making an appropriate coo of appreciation as Otabek heaves the lid open to reveal the various treasures. “What is it?” Yuri asks.

“These are for you,” Otabek explains. “They’re gifts that are specifically for the bride. I’ve been filling this chest all my life, but I didn’t know I was going to marry a man, so I’m not sure if all of these will be to your liking.” He picks up some of the silver jewellery and touches the edge of a particularly precious bolt of cloth, vibrantly green and shiny.

“For me?” Yuri is surprised. “I thought I bring dowry.”

“Yes, but these are personal gifts. I also want you to have this.”

Yuri breaks into a grin of recognition when Otabek presents him the rolled-up and cleaned lynx fur. “Рысь!” he exclaims, hugging the fur. “Lynx, yes?”

“Yes.” Otabek leans his cheek on his hand, resting his elbow on the edge of the chest, just as _ensorcelled_ as Janibek had accused him of being on the floodplain of the Three Sisters. “A lynx.”

“Lynx,” Yuri repeats. “Our bed,” he adds, pointing at Otabek’s bed.

“Soon, I hope,” Otabek murmurs.

Yuri rifles through the chest, admiring the treasures within. They lay out the engraved silver pieces of the ceremonial horse harness on the floor, and Yuri plays with the little bells and tassels attached to it, trying some of the pieces out on himself.

“It’s for your horse to wear during the wedding procession,” Otabek explains. “What kind of records do you have for your horses? I heard you mention them.”

Yuri puffs out his cheeks and blows out a stream of air ending with a muttered rude word. He puts down the tasselled mouth bit. “They are... marked-down records,” he says slowly. “They are put on... cloth, hide.” He makes sweeping gestures with his hands as though stroking something flat. “And anyone can look and see and understand the markings.”

“Can I?” Otabek asks.

“I don’t know. I will show you.” Yuri looks unhappy with his ability to explain. “At home, there are many of these marked-down items. They have many... cloths. Many markings. They are stories and history and records.”

“I should take you back to your mother,” Otabek says, unable to really imagine what Yuri is describing. What records exist for his family consist of marking down moon phases and the time between them to count the passage of months and years or creating rudimentary maps that rely on common knowledge of landmarks to be understood. The breeding records for their herd are simply remembered and recited, similarly to family ties among the human families.

Yuri’s mother is standing on the steps of the wagon, wrapped up in a fur shawl when they get back. The little camp is abandoned and the fire has been put out. Evgeniya comes down the stairs and gestures for Yuri to come up to her, speaking rapidly. She seems to scold him, but with worry rather than annoyance. Otabek does what a good son-in-law does.

“Mother,” he says, bowing his head in respect.

Yuri inhales in surprise, but followed by a short laugh, as he explains it to Evgeniya. She is startled, then nods too, saying a few words.

“She says you don’t have to do that,” Yuri explains, taking Otabek’s arm. “Come inside.”

The inside of the wagon is cluttered and colourful. At the back of it seems to be a small bed platform with curtains attached. On the front is a small stove that fills the inside with heat and the scent of tea. There are two small stools and a tiny table, and many chest-like objects attached to the walls and the floor. Otabek has to bend down a little to fit inside, but both Yuri and Evgeniya can stand up straight.

“Sit!” Yuri says after having helped his mother onto one of the stools. Otabek tries the three-legged stool but finds it too unsteady for his tastes and instead finds his seat on the plank floor of the wagon. Evgeniya watches him while Yuri rummages through the chests, and her expression and attitude are so similar to her son that Otabek is slightly affected. But she is tinged with a heaviness of mind that Yuri lacks.

“Here. Horse records.” Yuri folds onto the floor next to him and hands him a rectangle bound in leather. Inside are fragile pages filled with tiny markings, just as Yuri had said, and even drawings that Otabek traces with his fingers, fascinated.

“Read,” he says.

Yuri what-noises him, staring at his mouth.

“To look at this and understand what it says. It’s to read.”

“Read,” Yuri repeats. “Can you read, Бека?”

Otabek shakes his head, handing the bound papers back to Yuri. “You can?”

“да,” Yuri says in a tone of _naturally_.

“You’re quite amazing, Yura,” Otabek says softly and enjoys the sight of Yuri becoming pink in the face.

Yuri mutters something in his tongue and shoves the records onto the table in front of his mother. Then Yuri shuffles across the small space of the floor to the bed platform and pulls out something massive, furry and black.

“Бека, бear,” he says, fumbling with the hide until the big, partly preserved head of the bear is revealed. Yuri grins to match the bared teeth of the preserved head. His mother huffs, and Otabek catches her hiding a surprising smile behind one ornate sleeve of her dress. The words she mutters sound affectionate, and Yuri grins up at her too.

“This is the first time I’ve seen a bear this close,” Otabek murmurs, touching the bear’s head, surprised at how soft the fur is around the snout, even dead.

“But you always talk of бear,” Yuri says in surprise. “You show me horses with бear marking.” He gestures at his flank. “I think бear is important!”

“It is. It’s my mother’s family symbol,” Otabek says, still stroking the bear, realising that even though he’d explained this to Yuri before, of course Yuri hadn’t understood at the time. “And also mine.”

Yuri’s grin tilts and goes a little smug. “I knew it,” he says with great self-assurance, then speaks rapidly to Evgeniya, pointing at the bear hide and Otabek. She is far more animated in private with her son, but that isn’t surprising. Otabek is glad to be included.

“Yura,” he says, touching the back of Yuri’s hand. “I think I should learn your language too.”

Yuri nods. “I will also tell you how to r-read.” He stumbles slightly on the new word, but Otabek remains steadfastly impressed by him. “And-” He makes a gesture with his hand as if gripping something small and doing something with it.

“Write? To make those markings,” Otabek says, gesturing at the horse records.

“Yes.” Yuri beams. “Write.”

Otabek glances surreptitiously up at Evgeniya, finding her to be looking at a small square of cloth in her hands. She has a faraway quality to her, which is more than the exotic appearance and foreign tongue she shares with Yuri. It’s as if her thoughts are elsewhere almost constantly, barely touching on the present, even when she converses with Yuri.

“Yura,” Otabek says again, softer this time, hoping not to disturb Evgeniya. “What was it like going home?” he asks, not knowing how else to approach the issue he has in mind.

Yuri’s eyes shutter too, just like his mother’s. “Empty,” he says after a moment’s consideration, stroking the bear fur still in his lap. “Everyone is dead.” The way he says it, both fragile and matter-of-fact, makes Otabek want to put him under his coat again. “So I think of you and the stars and the horses.”

“What did your mother think of coming here?”

“She- Water from her eyes.” Yuri touches his own eyelids, drawing his fingers down his cheeks. “She cried. She cried and cried. She didn’t want to leave. But there is just fighting and fires and death everywhere. Empty home, empty yard.” Yuri juts out his chin stubbornly. “So I make her come here.”

“And what does she think about you marrying me?” Otabek questions. He’ll be her son-in-law, so he wants to make an effort at understanding her. Calling her _mother_ hadn’t been received well, although not badly either.

Yuri speaks to her mother again, making his what-noise while gesturing at himself and at Otabek. She looks up from the piece of cloth and studies Otabek for a while before answering. Her words are still tinged with fondness.

“She says I never listen anyway, so she won’t try to change my mind,” Yuri translates faithfully. He makes another comment at her, and she reaches down to pat his head, calling him _Юрочка_ again.

“Yu-rochka?” Otabek attempts the sounds on his own tongue, making both of the Muscovites look at him. “You have many names.”

“Отабек, Бека, m-my light,” Yuri counts on his fingers. “You have many names too.”

Otabek bows his head, touching his face to the bear’s which he still holds in his hands. “Say that again. Your what?”

“My light?” Yuri repeats, touching the back of Otabek’s head, stroking his hair.

Otabek has never thought he’d one day hear that maternal name of affection spoken by his beloved. It’s both familiar and reassuring but also laden with new meaning and excitement. “Yura,” he says. “Everything is going to be all right.”

~

It takes half a moon for the auspicious day to arrive. For part of that time, Otabek has to return to the horse pastures, but it’s for a task he’s happy to complete. As part of the rituals, Yuri and Otabek will undertake a ceremonial trip to the pastures to introduce Yuri’s horses to the herd. Although the preparation of the site takes Otabek away from Yuri, it’s not hard to bear with the promise of what’s to come in mind.

“You’re the same as everyone else, after all,” Kireybek tells Otabek one evening, clapping him on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. “You have the same foolish grin as anyone who’s getting married. I’m sorry I’m going to miss the ceremony.”

Otabek, who knows he hadn’t been grinning, nods. “You had your ceremony. It’ll be the same, so you’re not missing anything.”

“It’s hardly the same when you marry a man!” Kireybek laughs.

“I don’t think the ceremony will be changed,” Otabek says but lets his brother wax poetic about the beauty of married life and children for the rest of the day while they work. Otabek takes his time enjoying his time under the sky, dreaming of his green-eyed future.

On the eve of the ceremony itself, Altynbek comes to sit with him in Eyinzhu’s yurt, sharing a celebratory meal in private. Otabek knows his father well enough to see there’s something on his mind, but doesn’t ask about it, figuring his father will speak when he wants to. That moment comes after the meal, while Otabek serves tea in deference to his elders.

“As your father, it’s my duty to make sure you understand what’s going to happen during the wedding night,” Altynbek begins. His mouth is serious, but he can’t keep the mirth from his eyes, which crinkle up at the corners like Eastern fans.

“Oh, yes, listen to the expert,” Eyinzhu mutters.

“All right, woman, this is between men.” Altynbek shakes his finger at her, trying not to laugh. “Hush.”

“Yes, yes. Enjoy and learn, my light,” Eyinzhu says with a sigh. She gets up and draws the drape shut around her bed, leaving Altynbek and Otabek sitting by the hearth with the remnants of their evening meal, tea cups in hand. The drape won’t block their voices, but it’ll dampen them enough to create a sense of privacy.

Altynbek clears his throat and strokes his chin, moving his cushion closer to Otabek’s. “Enjoyment is naturally a part of it,” he says, striving for seriousness. “In your case, it might be the only part of it.”

The low fire glows red and hot, and Otabek blames its effect for his cheeks growing warm. He refills his father’s cup with the last of the tea from the kettle before setting it aside. “I want to learn,” he says obediently and wonders which of them actually knows more about the subject of being intimate with another man.

“As you know,” Altynbek continues, picking up his cup and finding a comfortable position on the cushion, leaning back on the wooden frame that’s for back support. “Men and women fit together in a certain way for a certain reason.” He raises his hand. “Just listen.”

Otabek nods, sitting back.

“But sex isn’t just about making children. It’s also about enjoyment and being close to your wife or husband, and there are a lot of ways to go about it. Yes, even between men.” He lowers his voice further and leans towards Otabek. “A man can fit together with another man, as well,” he confides.

Otabek doesn’t dare say anything in fear of both his embarrassment and eagerness being too obvious. His mind is filled with the promise of _fitting together_ with Yuri and with some surprise that his father is actually teaching him something new.

“There are many ways to please your partner. As the husband, that’s your job.” Altynbek puts his cup down to make a point by stabbing his finger into his palm. “An unhappy wife can and will leave, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Otabek says at once. “Then I should-”

“You should listen to your wife, that’s what,” Altynbek says a little louder, which earns him a scoff from behind the curtain. He lowers his voice again. “The way to enter a man is through the anus,” he says. “But only if said man wants it, and only after proper preparations. The area must be clean, lubricated, and stretched so as not to tear anything important.” He squeezes Otabek’s knee. “This is _very_ important. For this hole, the same applies to women as well, should you take another wife later. However, most women may prefer to use the other one, which does all of the lubrication and stretching on its own. Provided you’re doing your job of pleasing her properly.”

Otabek remains quiet, only nodding under his father’s gaze, glad that his face naturally falls into a serious frown when he’s thinking. Even the parts that are new to him are not unknown among the young men of the various families, and stories regarding the pleasures of both men and women circulate when those young men get together during meetings and celebrations. Otabek had been just as interested in the lustful stories as anyone, but he’d never been able to connect them with the young women he saw and never made brash advances at them. It had always earned his mother praise for how well-raised he was.

“But the _most_ important thing you can do is just listen to her. Him,” Altynbek corrects himself. “And yourself. Nobody should do anything they don’t want to.” He clears his throat and pats Otabek’s knee again. “You’re a good son.”

“Thank you, dad,” Otabek says. His voice is hoarse under the strain of taking in the information, the knowledge that he _can_ join his body with Yuri’s, and not letting his imagination run away from him like a frightened horse. “Is there anything else?”

“Well, I fear most of my knowledge on the subject isn’t entirely applicable, but just remember that hands and mouths work wonders.” Altynbek chuckles. “Here. This is my private gift to the two of you.” He picks up a skin that sloshes slightly, one that Otabek had assumed to contain an alcohol of some sort. “It can be used for lubrication, but it’s very difficult to clean out of furs, so lay something down first.”

“Oh.” Otabek takes the skin carefully. A small amount of viscous liquid has leaked out from the mouth of it, smelling mostly like herbs. He touches it and rolls the unfamiliar, oily substance between his fingers. “Thanks.”

“I think I’ll spend the night with your mother,” Altynbek says, stretching. “This talk has put me in the mood.” He touches Otabek’s head as he gets up, something between a fatherly pat and the way he touches horses. “Good night, son. You need some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

~

The bride and the bride’s family would ordinarily ride from their camp to the groom’s camp in a great, festive procession. The bride would wear s gown and a tall hat with a veil and ride a horse dressed in a tasselled and belled silver harness. Her family would sing, and when the groom could hear the singing and the bells, he would go out of his yurt and meet the bride. After a ritual greeting and exchange of gifts with the bride’s parents, the bride and the groom would ride together around the camp three times before coming in for the ceremonies and celebrations.

Otabek doesn’t mind that his bride isn’t a woman. In fact, he prefers it that way. He doesn’t mind that the procession won’t come all the way from the bride’s family camp or that the part of the bride’s family is played by his uncle and his cousins. He doesn’t mind that instead of the traditional wedding songs, he hears his bride singing a foreign tune on his own. He doesn’t mind that when he goes outside, it’s snowing so much he can barely see Yuri up on his horse, wearing his flame red coat and a fur hat instead of a gown and a veil.

He hands the ritual gift to Evgeniya, then mounts Burdock and brings her close to Yuri on his horse, reaching out his hand for Yuri to clasp. When their hands are linked, they spur their horses on. And Otabek doesn’t mind that midway through the first roundtrip around the camp Yuri climbs onto Burdock with him, snuggling between his arms, and continues to sing up at the dark sky, until his song is broken by laughter and shivers.

“Бека, hurry,” Yuri says.

They finish the final two trips around the camp at a gallop, the bells on Yuri’s unburdened horse ringing almost as sweetly as Yuri’s out-of-breath laughter when Burdock slips and slides to a stop in front of the awning set up over the tea fire, where the parents and the augur sit, sheltered from the snow.

Otabek urges Burdock to rear up in front of the awning, not to show off to his family, but just to have Yuri clutch at him and launch into another peel of laughter. When Burdock settles again, Otabek jumps off and picks Yuri up to place him on the ground. He leaves the horses steaming in the snowfall, stepping under the awning hand in hand with Yuri, for once ready to leave the care of the animals to someone else. Evgeniya is sobbing into her sleeve, accepting Otyrau’s arm as her support.

“Мама!” Yuri cries, but in a tone calling for her to be strong.

Eyinzhu, on the other hand, has her arms crossed and her chin tilted up, but even her eyes are shiny, while Altynbek is openly proud and grinning.

“Sit, my son! My... son-in-law,” Altynbek gestures at the seats prepared for them by the fire. The augur is standing by with a tray that has two cups on it.

Otabek pulls Yuri to the seats to receive the cups. Yuri’s nose wrinkles but he accepts the cup Otabek offers him as is tradition. Otabek picks up his own cup next and holds it up towards his family, meeting his mother’s eyes, then his father’s. Yuri does the same, then, with a nod at each other, they down the contents, the mixture of mare’s milk and stallion’s blood, which sends Yuri into a coughing fit.

Following that, Evgeniya offers them both a tiny cup of something clear but strong-smelling. Yuri had shown the glass bottle to Otabek before, cradling it as though it was a great treasure. “За любовь,” Evgeniya tells them, sniffling.

“За любовь!” Yuri replies and gulps the whole thing down. This time it’s Otabek who coughs at the surprising burn of the liquid in his throat and nose. Yuri pats him on the back, laughing again.

“My son is married!” Altynbek declares and a cheer goes up.

Otabek doesn’t mind it at all.

~

After hours of music and food and exchanging gifts in a complicated pattern of family relations, there is dancing and more music and drink. The snow doesn’t let up even for a moment, building up on top of the yurts and being trampled into slush under moving feet. But the cold weather is welcome, as is the snow, and they both help cool Otabek down when he finishes dancing. He catches Yuri by the hand, pulling him away from the Nine Holes boards.

“Let’s go now,” he says, still out of breath. “Or we won’t have the chance.”

The yurt is warm after the heavy snow. Its walls dampen the music and the noise of people but doesn’t completely remove them. The inside smells faintly of apple wood, a scent Otabek recognises because it’s rare and sought-after among the plainspeople who tend to burn other things than wood in their hearths. Otabek’s bed platform has been rearranged and made wider. The bear hide hangs on the wall behind it, the bear’s blind eyes glinting in the light of the hearth.

“I live here now,” Yuri states as if trying it out. He walks around the hearth, stopping in front of the ancestral shrine set on the north wall of the yurt, opposite the south wall’s door. Eyinzhu, as a woman, has the western side of the of the yurt.

“Yes,” Otabek says. He takes off his hat and places it on the chest of clothes at the end of his bed.

“We’re married,” Yuri says, turning to look at Otabek. “It has happened?”

“Yes,” Otabek says. He undoes the belt that keeps his outer coat in place. Yuri’s coat is closed with a row of buttons instead.

“Yes,” Yuri echoes, facing Otabek. He takes a few breaths, pushing out his chest, then swipes off his hat. His hair is loose and gleams like fresh hay. He comes to Otabek, the green in his eyes burning. Otabek catches his face between his hands.

“You have remarkable eyes,” he murmurs, struck now, as he had been before, by the determination he sees in them.

Yuri copies the gesture on Otabek, framing his face with his hands, and pulls their foreheads together. “My eyes are only green,” he says. “But see. They match.” He nimbly undoes the buttons of his red coat, revealing a new tunic underneath, made of the soft green cloth Otabek had gifted him. The green of his eyes is a little lighter, but the golden seed-and-seedhead embroidery of the tunic picks up the paleness of both his hair and eyes.

To Otabek, this is a sight that rivals the endless sky and the sea of grasses of the steppe. “We’re married,” he repeats Yuri’s earlier statement in a hoarse voice, trying to overcome his disbelief.

“Last time I could not tell you how much I liked it,” Yuri says, letting Otabek help off his coat. “When we rode together and you would... harden. Or when I rode on top of you in this bed.” He sits on the edge of the bed where Otabek crouches and places his forehead on Yuri’s knee in both in embarrassment and excitement. Yuri strokes Otabek’s braided tail of hair, making a curious and soft what-noise under his breath.

“You did tell me how much you liked it,” Otabek groans, picking up his head to look Yuri in the eye. “You wanted to do it over and over again. That told me you liked it.” He runs his hands down Yuri’s legs, pulling off his pointy-toed boots.

Yuri’s lips are parted, and even though the yurt isn’t well-lit, the colour that has risen onto his cheeks is visible. “I want to do it over and over again now.”

Otabek’s fingers shake as he unlatches Yuri’s belt and pulls it away with its attached eating knife. He inhales shakily when his hands skim along the shiny, white shirt Yuri has under the green one as he helps Yuri out of the tunic. The sight of the familiar undershirt makes his trousers uncomfortably tight. The lacing on the front of Yuri’s trousers is almost too much for him to handle, but Yuri says something in his tongue along with a little laugh and does it himself.

Otabek takes off his own coat and turns to light a candle from the hearth. When he turns back, Yuri is sitting in the middle of his— _their_ —bed, looking very much like he had a year ago. Otabek almost drops the candle in his hurry to kick off his boots and climb in with him.

With the drapes closed around the bed, the noise from the party recedes even further. The candle flame flickers in the air current created by Otabek taking off his tunic woven with the imagery of horses and birds. Yuri sits up on his knees to touch the sides of Otabek’s head, making a soft “ah” when he finds the scar on his temple again. Otabek nuzzles into his hand.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “It healed well.”

Yuri sits back, bringing up the hem of his shirt to reveal the faintest white scar on his thigh. “This also healed well,” he says.

“What a nice leg,” Otabek echoes himself from a year earlier and follows Yuri’s fingers with his own, touching the scar and earning a little sound from Yuri. He glances up to make sure Yuri is looking before leaning down to nuzzle at his thigh, inhaling and tasting him. He brings the hem up further, nosing between Yuri’s legs until Yuri is on his back in the furs, ankles hooked behind Otabek’s shoulders. _Mouths and hands do work wonders_ , he thinks hazily, spreading Yuri open and licking and sucking on his male parts while Yuri squirms and gasps and pulls on Otabek’s braid.

Yuri hisses words in his own tongue when he releases, and Otabek swallows the warm fluid that fills his mouth. Yuri is speechless and breathless when Otabek lifts his head. He keeps pushing the shirt up, following it with his mouth to make sure every bit of Yuri gets equal attention while ignoring his own need. By the time he reaches Yuri’s chin and then his lips, Yuri has his braid wrapped around his hand like reins.

Otabek doesn’t mind being the horse to Yuri’s spring grass and is glad to go where directed. Yuri places his free hand against Otabek’s chest and taps it there in time with his heart, which makes Otabek realise how fast it’s beating. Otabek drops his head onto Yuri’s bared shoulder to catch his breath. _The yurt is empty for the whole night_. He doesn’t have to try and devour Yuri all at once.

Yuri slips as easily out of his slippery shirt as he had before. He sighs and hums softly when he strokes Otabek’s shoulders and arms and breaks into a grin when he undoes Otabek’s trousers and finds him ready. Yuri is less thin now, a little more filled out, but still smooth and supple. His cheeks have grown into sharp edges and his collarbones stand out like the lip of a cup. Otabek mouths at them while Yuri takes his lap, sitting in the crook of his crossed legs.

“You make me greedy,” Otabek murmurs, finding that just like the other parts of Yuri that have filled out, his buttocks are rounder too and fill his hands.

“Greedy?” Yuri repeats, looking at Otabek’s mouth.

“I want too much.”

“Что? Opposite of problem,” Yuri rules, nuzzling his lips to Otabek’s and his hand to Otabek’s member. “I want you on top of me like a horse. You are big like one.”

Otabek bucks like one too, bracing on his hands as his hips lift off the furs under Yuri’s words and touch. His release is hard and fast and splatters onto his own stomach and thighs and over Yuri’s hand. Yuri looks at him, lips parted and curled into a smile. He mimes the eruption with his free hand, adding a sound for effect at the end.

“Yura,” Otabek says, his breathlessness making it a growl.

Yuri what-noises, eyes wide and gleeful, and then shrieks with laughter as Otabek pins him into the furs.

Outside, the snow comes down harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More about milk tea: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suutei_tsai  
> More about ankle bones: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shagai


	18. Post-post-epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted this to come a full circle.
> 
> Also, for the sake of unnecessary transparency, the impetus for writing this whole story was Yuri's soft, white undershirt.

The river valley has changed. The winter had been abundant with snow, and thus the spring floods had been exceptionally ample. Much of the scree on the valley slope has been washed away, leaving behind fertile silt that had grown over with seasonal grasses.

Still, although it has changed, Otabek recognises the spot when he comes across it.

There are no wagons now. Not even their metal wheels jut out of the water, the surface of which is higher than either of the previous years he’s visited. The sun is low, so he shields his eyes from its warm radiance as he surveys the opposite side of the river. The lowland moves like it’s alive when the slightest breeze touches the grass.

He whistles. Not to summon the horses, but to alert the people.

Soon the sound of an approaching horse at gallop carries to his ears over the hum of the everpresent wind. Yuri’s sun-bleached hair is styled similarly to his, the sides shorn and the braid flying behind him as he comes up to Otabek. The same sun had burned him earlier in the summer, but has now left him with a luscious tan.

“Бека,” Yuri says. “I heard you. What is it?”

“Look,” Otabek says, pointing into the valley.

“The water’s high,” Yuri says, confused. “What?” he says as Otabek chuckles.

“You don’t remember how we met?” Otabek asks.

Yuri looks back into the valley, mouth forming an o of understanding. “This is the place?”

“This is the place.”

Yuri leads his horse along the edge of the valley until he finds a place to go down and rides to the water’s edge. Otabek follows, hand curled protectively across his abdomen. The water flows slowly, splitting and babbling along the few bigger rocks standing in the riverway. But rather than the scenery, Otabek watches Yuri.

“Do you still have the thing?” Yuri asks, not looking at him.

“Stop calling him a thing,” Otabek murmurs, peering into the inside of his coat to see the small furry snout and the pink tongue lolling out of the wolf cub’s mouth. “He’s just a baby.”

“But I want to ride with you,” Yuri mutters.

“You can ride behind me.”

“ _Бека_ ,” Yuri huffs, turning away quickly, but not quickly enough. Otabek has seen the pouting, pursed lips. “Are you sure this is the place? I can’t tell.”

“I wouldn’t forget.” Otabek urges Burdock to catch up to Yuri, reaching to touch his elbow. “This is where I found you.”

Yuri drops his arms, resting them on the knob of the saddle, staring across the river with unseeing eyes, lost in thought or memory. Even though the green of the grasslands fades as the seasons turn, the green of his eyes stays bright. They’ve lived as a married couple for almost a year.

“I like travelling without a wagon better,” Yuri says eventually, remembering the present. “They get stuck. In mud. In snow. In shrubs and roots. They’re meant for roads.” He pats the neck of his mount, a pale tan horse he’d called Light, almost the same colour as his hair. It’s one of his foreign horses, taller than Burdock, but fitting for someone who seems to keep growing taller and taller himself.

 _Roads_. Otabek peers down at the creature in his coat again. “You’re right, there are no roads here,” he says.

“I like that better,” Yuri echoes his earlier sentiment. “There’s no wrong way to go if there are no roads.” He sniffs, sitting up straighter, giving Otabek a glance from narrowed green eyes. “Do you remember all the places where you’ve picked up stray animals?”

“Some,” Otabek says softly, holding in his smile. Yuri had made it very clear he wouldn’t accept Otabek marrying a secondary wife, but his annoyance at Otabek being occupied with helping a baby animal was both new and adorable. Especially when Otabek had already caught him cuddling the wolf cub on several occasions, crooning Muscovite lullabies at him.

“Не пизди!” Yuri huffs at him, disbelieving, and turns Light around to go back up the side of the valley, uninterested in dwelling in the past. “Mom said you can’t let the thing inside the yurt again. He peed everywhere and bit a hole in her boot, and мама doesn’t want him either! He sheds.”

Otabek laughs, following him up the slope, watching the pale braid swing from side to side. Eyinzhu’s heart of stone always softened to Otabek’s strays, although she didn’t like to admit it. Evgeniya was still unused to everything.

“It’s fine,” Otabek calls to Yuri. “I’ll sleep outside with him.”

“Then I have to sleep outside!” Yuri says over his shoulder, and although his words are forceful, he’s not angry. The relaxed slant of his shoulders and the glimpse of curled-up lips tell Otabek enough.

“You don’t _have_ to,” Otabek says anyway, to be rewarded with Yuri tossing his head like an opinionated horse. His attitude transfers to Light, who leaps up the last few paces of the slope and onto the mainland, snorting and shaking his head.

“But I _will_. I’m going back,” Yuri declares. “I have a job to do.” He’s become a fair herdsman out of sheer dedication and stubbornness. And every night, no matter where it is, he curls up to Otabek to sleep.

Otabek follows him up to the top of the valley’s edge, but instead of going after him, he turns Burdock back towards the river, surveying it one last time. They’ll probably follow the same river south the following year, but Otabek feels a sense of farewell nonetheless. With the sun in his eyes, creating deceptive shapes out of grass and the glimmer of light on the water, he can almost imagine the wagons there.

“Well, Burr,” he murmurs to his mount, adjusting the sleeping cub in the front of his tunic. “That’s that. Let’s go.” He encourages Burdock to turn with a click of his tongue, following Yuri and the line of hoof marks in the dusty ground back towards the herd.


End file.
